RICHARD 
FURLONG 

E. TEMPLE  THURSTON 


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3 


RICHARD   FURLONG 


BOOKS  BY  E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

RICHARD  FURLONG 

THE  ANTAGONISTS 

THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

TRAFFIC 

THE  REALIST          , 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  KATHERINE 

MIRAGE 

SALLY  BISHOP 

THE  GREATEST  WISH  IN  THE  WORLD 

THE  PATCHWORK  PAPERS 

THE  GARDEN  OF  RESURRECTION 

THE  FLOWER  OF  GLOSTER 

THIRTEEN 


180 


c 


You're  goin'  to  stop  'ere — that's  all  I  want.'" 


[PAGE  88  ] 


RICHARD 
FURLONG 


BY 

E.  TEMPLE    THURSTON 

AUTHOR  OP  "THE  ANTAGONISTS,"  "THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE," 
"THE  GARDEN  OF  RESURRECTION,"  "THE  OPEN  WINDOW,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

D.  APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
19*3 


Comical,  IQIJ,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


I 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO    Mr   WIFE 

If  there  is  anything  to  you 

In  love  or  folly,  pain  or  pride — 

In  poor  endeavor  whipped  and  spurred, 

In  eager  hope,   unsatisfied; 

If  in  the  wonder  of  the  years  that  were, 

You  see  the  promise  of  the  years  that  may, 

Then   Pve  not  writ  one  word  in  vain, 

Or  set  a  star  to  see  it  fall  away. 


RICHARD  FURLONG 

BOOK  I 
CHAPTER    I 

RICHARD  FURLONG,  who  may  be  known 
to  you,  if  not  from  previous  history,  then 
perhaps  by  name  alone,  set  forth  to  meet 
the  world  one  early  morning  of  an  April  day. 

In  an  age  when  mechanical  inventions  shall  have 
made  one  vast  city  of  the  country  in  which  we  live, 
when  great  schemes  of  transport  have  knit  together 
in  one  hideous  design  the  towns  of  England  of  which 
the  vast  Black  Country  is  a  pattern  you  may  see  to- 
day— this  adventure  of  Dicky  Furlong,  starting  out 
to  meet  the  world  in  a  train  which  toiled  so  slowly 
through  the  countryside,  might  well  take  upon  itself 
all  the  golden  light  of  Romance. 

Destinies  no  doubt  are  set  in  motion,  threads  are 
fixed  anew  upon  the  empty  loom  whenever  a  child  is 
born;  but  not  until  that  child  has  turned  its  face  to 
the  world,  seeking  to  conquer  and  alone,  not  until 
then  can  you  of  a  certainty  discern  the  pattern  it  is 
set  by  Destiny  to  weave. 

i 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  Furlong  had  run  away  from  home  and,  at 
the  age  of  eighteen,  with  twelve  pounds  in  his  pocket, 
was  going  up  to  London  to  learn  the  Mystery  of 
Art.  Whether  this  were  the  pattern  Destiny  in- 
tended him  to  weave  the  pages  which  follow  are 
meant  inevitably  to  show.  For  the  mere  determina- 
tion of  a  man  to  follow  a  road  is  but  faintly  indica- 
tive of  the  journey  he  will  make  or  the  destination 
he  will  reach.  A  thousand  by-ways  he  must  pass, 
refusing  again  and  again  the  alluring  hands  that 
beckon  him  their  way. 

Wherefore  the  heart  of  a  man  must  be  steeled  and 
strong  or  ever  he  reaches  that  journey's  end  which 
in  the  first  hot  blood  of  youth  he  has  set  himself  to 
come  by.  And  all  the  history  that  follows  here  was 
the  intent  to  trace  the  countless  pit-falls  and  temp- 
tations in  just  one  man's  journey  to  his  heart's  de- 
sire. 

The  third-class  carriage  into  which  Dicky,  with 
his  small  bundle,  had  stepped  was  empty.  It  was 
the  first  train  in  the  day  from  Pershore  to  London, 
and  he  had  been  the  only  passenger  waiting  on  the 
platform.  A  drowsy  porter  had  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  as  the  train  began  to  move  off,  and  then 
the  roofs  of  the  little  town  slipped  away  behind 
them.  He  changed  his  seat,  sitting  with  his  back  to 
the  engine,  that  he  might  see  the  very  last  of  the 
place.  It  had  certain  recollections  for  him  which  he 
cherished.  There  on  that  very  platform  his  mother 

2 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

had  said  good-bye  to  him  when  he  went  to  school. 
But  it  was  not  his  mother  he  thought  of  now. 

Five  miles  away,  over  that  belt  of  trees  which  lay 
beyond  the  town,  his  whole  mind  centred.  The  first 
parting  between  a  boy  and  a  girl,  when  the  one  sets 
forth  into  the  great  unknown  and  the  other  remains 
behind  to  pass  the  empty  lanes  where  they  have  so 
often  walked  together,  is  as  great  a  wrench  as  you 
well  may  know.  Like  the  first  sight  of  death,  ter- 
rible to  youth  in  its  inevitable  finality,  so  such  a  part- 
ing is  the  first  fearful  glimpse  into  the  mysterious 
struggle  of  life. 

Until  that  moment  it  may  well  have  seemed  that 
the  matter  were  easy  enough;  but  in  one  sudden 
moment,  as  with  Dicky  Furlong,  a  boy  must  learn 
that  the  whole  world  is  his  common  enemy,  and 
scarce  one  will  lend  a  hand  to  bring  him  ease. 

Long  after  the  belt  of  trees  had  dropped  away 
behind  the  rising  land,  he  still  looked  in  that  direc- 
tion where  his  Dorothy  should  be,  and  his  eyes  saw 
nothing  of  the  woods  and  meadows  through  which 
they  passed.  But  already  his  first  battle  had  been 
fought  and  won.  He  had  seized  his  independence 
and  now  was  well  set  upon  the  high  road,  one  trav- 
eller amongst  the  many  thousands  who  are  all  step- 
ping forth  eagerly  or  wearily  towards  the  city  of 
their  dreams. 

That  much  accomplished,  it  is  not  so  hard  a  busi- 
ness to  put  the  best  foot  foremost.  As  they  steamed 

3 


into  the  station  of  Evesham,  Dicky  brought  his  lips 
together. 

"I  wouldn't  turn  back,"  said  he  to  himself,  "not 
for  a  thousand  pounds!"  and  then  set  to  work, 
counting  the  change  of  silver  and  coppers  in  his 
pocket.  Every  penny  was  of  value  now.  It  seemed 
hard  to  realise  that,  with  so  great  a  fortune  as  twelve 
pounds  in  his  possession;  nevertheless,  he  counted  it 
all  to  the  last  halfpenny,  and  was  thus  engaged  when 
another  passenger  entered  the  carnage.  Dicky  put 
the  money  away,  and  the  train  moved  on  again 
towards  London. 

For  a  while  the  newcomer  watched  him,  specu- 
lating, as  no  doubt  you  do  when  you  have  come  to 
know  the  thousand  interests  in  life,  who  such  a  boy 
might  be,  why  he  was  counting  his  money,  and  what 
was  his  destination  by  that  early  train  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  is  always  interesting  to  be  curious;  it  is 
always  curious  to  find  out. 

Presently  he  moved  across  the  carriage  and  seated 
himself  in  the  corner  opposite  to  Dicky. 

"Going  to  London?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Dicky. 

"You're  making  an  early  start." 

Still  conscious  of  the  authority  of  home  from 
which  he  had  just  escaped,  Dicky  replied  cautiously 
in  the  affirmative  again. 

The  stranger  smiled.  He  perceived  the  cautious- 
ness, and  his  curiosity  was  gently  roused.  He  found 

4 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

most  people  interesting  in  a  day's  journey,  and  this 
boy,  with  his  quick  grey  eyes  and  his  set  lips,  whose 
age,  as  he  thought  of  it,  he  found  most  difficult  to 
gauge, -was  not  the  companion  one  would  expect  to 
meet  on  an  early  morning  journey.  He  crossed  his 
legs  and  settled  himself  more  comfortably  in  his 
corner. 

"Taking  a  holiday?"  he  continued  presently. 

"No." 

"Going  back  to  business?" 

"I'm  going  to  work." 

"What  are  you  going  to  work  at?" 

Dicky  paused  and  looked  squarely  into  the 
stranger's  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  painter — an  artist,"  he  said  at 
last.  He  said  it  proudly.  There  was  the  ring  of 
confidence  in  his  voice,  the  tone  of  enthusiasm,  the 
sure  note  of  youth — the  note  we  must  invariably 
laugh  at  when  we  have  passed  all  hope  of  it  our- 
selves. 

His  companion  looked  at  his  watch.  There  were 
three  more  hours  yet  before  they  came  to  London. 
He  took  a  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  filled  it.  When 
it  was  lit,  he  looked  again  at  Dicky. 

"How  do  you  manage  to  do  that?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  learn." 

"Where?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  your  living  by  it?" 

5 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes." 

"Well — this  is  very  interesting,"  said  the  stranger, 
smiling  again.  "Do  you  come  from  Evesham?" 

From  the  manner  in  which  Dicky  gave  him  the 
negative,  he  felt  it  wise  to  pursue  that  point  no 
farther.  In  these  little  adventures  of  discovery  one 
must  be  cautious  and  quick  to  take  a  tone  of  voice. 
From  that  moment  he  made  no  further  effort  to 
learn  where  Dicky  lived. 

"Is  this  just  an  intention  of  yours,"  he  asked 
presently,  "or  have  you  done  a  lot  of  painting  al- 
ready?" 

"I've  been  doing  it  for  two  or  three  years,"  re- 
plied Dicky,  and  wondered  if  that  seemed  a  short  or 
a  long  period  to  his  companion.  A  momentary  fear 
that  it  might  suggest  a  sense  of  brevity,  made  his 
cheeks  hot.  He  had  a  feeling  that  it  might  sound 
ridiculous,  though  it  spelt  an  age  to  him.  "I've  been 
working  pretty  hard,"  he  added. 

"I'm  sure  you  have,"  was  the  reply.  "Have  you 
exhibited  anywhere?" 

Dicky  shook  his  head.  The  thought  that  he  might 
seem  very  inexperienced  was  growing  in  his  mind, 
and  with  it  grew  the  hotness  in  his  cheeks.  He  felt 
an  inclination  to  refuse  an  answer  to  the  questions, 
but  so  quietly  were  they  put  that  it  appeared  more 
ridiculous  to  refuse  than  to  answer  them.  He  waited 
with  some  misgiving  for  the  next. 

6 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Are  you  going  to  a  school,"  the  stranger  went 
on  again,  "or  have  you  got  a  studio?" 

"No,  I  can't  afford  a  studio,"  he  replied.  "I  can't 
afford  a  school  yet." 

"Then  how  are  you  going  to  live?" 

"Well,  I've  got  a  little  money — and — and  I'm 
going  to  sell  my  pictures." 

"Have  you  brought  any  with  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Might  I  see  them?" 

Dicky's  hand  went  quickly  to  his  bundle.  The 
work  into  which  he  had  put  all  his  heart  was  a  better 
answer  to  these  questions  than  anything  he  could  say. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  an  exalted  opinion  of  them, 
but  they  were  what  he  had  done.  They  represented 
work  accomplished,  and  the  sense  of  justification 
accompanied  them  in  his  mind. 

His  companion  looked  on  with  inward  amusement 
as  he  watched  the  sketches  being  brought  forth  from 
the  bundle  that  could  have  contained  but  little  else 
beside.  Indeed,  it  occurred  to  him  that  no  doubt 
Dicky  had  some  portmanteau  in  the  van.  His  inter- 
est was  rather  in  the  fact  that  he  had  not  let  these 
treasures  pass  out  of  his  keeping. 

One  by  one,  then,  Dicky  turned  them  face  down- 
wards until  the  whole  collection  was  on  his  knees. 
So,  having  arranged  them  in  the  order  of  their  value 
in  his  estimation,  he  brought  forth  one  after  another, 
keeping  the  best  until  the  last. 

7 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

One  by  one  his  companion  took  them,  offering  no 
criticism,  only  asking  now  and  again  for  explanation 
of  the  subject — such  questions  as,  "What  time  of  the 
day  was  this  done?"  "How  long  did  you  take  over 
this?"  which  Dicky  answered  with  patient  expectancy. 

At  last  they  had  all  passed  from  Dicky's  hands 
and,  with  eager  eyes,  he  was  watching  his  com- 
panion's face  as  he  sat  in  prolonged  contemplation 
of  the  first  picture.  Presently  he  looked  up. 

"This  is  not  all  you've  done,  of  course?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  no — I've  left  a  lot  at  home — a  lot  that 
weren't  any  good.  These  are  the  ones  I'm  going  to 
sell." 

The  stranger  put  them  all  down  on  the  seat  beside 
him. 

"Well,"  said  he  after  a  pause,  "what  do  you  want 
me  to  say?" 

"What  you  think." 

"Quite  sure?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Then  you  won't  sell  one  of  these  sketches." 

Dicky  became  aware  of  a  feeling  of  sickness. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"They're  not  what  people  want — no  dealer  would 
take  them.  They're  unfinished.  I'm  criticising  them 
as  sketches  that  would  sell.  These  are  only  im- 
pressions." 

"But  they  are  real  impressions,"  said  Dicky. 
"They're  mine." 

8 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Do  you  know  what  a  dealer  would  reply  if  you 
said  that  to  him?" 

"What?" 

"He'd  say:  'Quite  so — but  who  are  you?'  Now 
what  would  your  answer  be  to  that?" 

For  a  moment  Dicky  looked  at  his  companion; 
then  he  leant  forward  and  gathered  up  the  sketches 
from  the  seat  and  in  silence  put  them  back  once  more 
into  the  bundle. 

The  stranger  smiled  again. 

"That  would  be  your  answer,"  said  he.  "Well,  I 
suppose  it's  about  the  best  one  you  could  make.  And 
if  he  had  any  sense  he'd  say:  'Now — go  and  finish 

a  picture  for  me — something  after  this  style ' 

and  he'd  show  you  a  picture  in  a  frame  in  his  gal- 
lery, a  picture,  all  excellent  in  completion,  admirable 
in  technique — probably  far  from  an  impression; 
worked  upon  so  carefully  that  all  real  impression 
was  gone  right  out  of  it.  What  'ud  you  do  then?" 

The  heat  came  back  again  into  Dicky's  cheeks. 

"I'd  tell  him,"  said  he  hotly,  "that  he  could  buy 
those  pictures  from  the  place  where  he  got  them. 
Those  are  not  the  sort  of  pictures  I'm  going  to 
paint." 

"What  are  your  sort,  then?" 

"I'm  going  to  paint  meanings,"  said  Dicky  sud- 
denly, expressing  himself  in  words  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  and  astonishing  himself  as  much  as  his 
companion,  "I'm  going  to  paint  meanings — I'm  not 

9 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

going  to  paint  things.  Trees  mean  something — 
they  aren't  just  trees — mountains  mean  something — 
rivers  mean  something — everything  has  a  meaning 
besides  its  mere  colour  and  shape.  That's  what  I'm 
going  to  paint." 

"Ever  heard  of  the  Futurists?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"No,"  said  Dicky. 

"Oh — then  I  suppose  you  are  the  new  mind,  eh? — 
the  new  mind  coming  out  of  nowhere  to  fling  itself 
against  the  brick  walls  of  tradition  in  London.  It's 
quite  interesting.  Very  well,  you  pick '  up  your 
sketches  then — that's  your  answer  to  our  friend 
the  dealer — you  pick  up  your  sketches,  and  you 
march  out  of  the  shop  and  you  get  a  meal  out  of 
the  money  you've  got  in  your  pocket.  Now  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  an  impertinent  question." 

"You  can  be  as  impertinent  as  you  like,"  said 
Dicky  who,  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  felt  that  all 
he  had  said  was  in  the  nature  of  impertinence.  "I 
don't  mind  what  you  ask." 

"Then  how  much  is  this  sum  of  money  upon  which 
you  propose  to  fall  back  when  you  can't  sell  your 
sketches?" 

"Just  twelve  pounds,"  replied  Dicky. 

His  companion  frowned  as  he  looked  at  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  with  friends?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"You'll  be  alone  in  London?" 
10 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes." 

"Know  anybody?" 

"I  have  a  letter  of  introduction." 

"To  whom?" 

"A  man  on  a  newspaper." 

The  stranger  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 


CHAPTER  II 

SO  soon  as  this  had  come  Dicky's  first  meeting 
with  the  world  and,  as  you  might  expect,  the 
first  feeling  he  had  for  it  was  contempt.  For 
just  as  he  believed  his  love  for  his  Dorothy  was 
unlike  any  man's  passion,  so — if  these  were  the  ways 
of  the  world  he  had  to  face — he  believed  he  was  to 
conquer  circumstance  as  no  man  had  ever  conquered 
it  before. 

Nearly  every  boy,  setting  forth  to  conquer,  is  a 
super-man.  Of  danger  he  knows  nothing — of  jeop- 
ardy no  more.  No  hope  is  forlorn  to  him;  no  temp- 
tation strong  enough  to  assail  the  high  citadel  of  his 
resolve.  He  is  out  to  win  with  a  whole  heart,  and 
all  compromise  to  victory  is  beneath  the  contempla- 
tion of  his  mind. 

When,  that  very  first  morning  of  his  adventure 
with  life,  Dicky  was  gently  shown  his  own  insignifi- 
cance, there  may  have  been  misgiving  in  his  mind, 
but  in  his  heart  he  laughed  at  the  discomfiture. 

What  did  this  stranger  know  of  all  he  could  do? 
All  the  sketches  he  had  shown  him  were  work  of 
the  past.  He  could  do  better  even  at  that  moment, 

and  in  a  year !  He  smiled  when  he  thought  to 

12 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

himself  of  the  great  work  he  would  be  doing  then. 

Accordingly  when,  at  the  station  in  London,  his 
companion  took  a  card  from  his  pocket  and  handed 
it  to  him,  saying,  "When  you've  had  a  week  of  it 
alone  in  London,  come  and  see  me — I  can  put  you 
up,"  he  took  it  and  smiled  with  a  gratitude  he  felt 
to  be  superior  to  the  offer  his  friend  had  made. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  he,  "but  I  sha'n't 
want  that  sort  of  help.  I've  got  some  money  of  my 
own." 

The  stranger  held  out  his  hand. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  get 
on.  How  old  are  you?" 

"Eighteen — nearly  nineteen." 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  age  to  begin.  I  suppose  you 
don't  see  any  difficulties  in  front  of  you?" 

"I  know  I  shall  have  to  work,"  said  Dicky. 

"And  I  expect  you're  yearning  to  be  at  it." 

"Yes." 

"Splendid — splendid.  Let  me  see  you  again  some 
day.  Good-bye." 

He  turned  away  to  the  back  of  the  train  where 
the  luggage  was  being  flung  out  upon  the  platform 
and,  gripping  his  bundle,  Dicky  walked  out  of  the 
station  into  the  streets  of  London. 

He  had  seen  the  great  city  before,  but  only  when 
driving  through  the  streets  to  change  from  one  sta- 
tion to  another.  Therefore,  it  was  not  all  new  to 
him;  but  that  moment,  as  he  stood  alone  upon  the 

13 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

pavement,  the  countless  vehicles  passing,  the  count- 
less people  hurrying  by,  he  found  it  very  strange. 

With  the  solemn  silence  of  the  hills  still  present 
in  his  ears,  this  eternal  discord  of  sounds  confused 
and  bewildered,  yet  insensibly  stirred  his  mind  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  conflict  which  lay  before  him. 

This  indeed  is  the  spirit  of  London — of  all  the 
great  cities  of  the  world.  It  is  not  in  them  that  the 
pure  metal  of  new  mind  is  to  be  discovered,  but  that 
there  is  the  vast  foundry  where  it  is  beaten  into 
shape.  All  day  long  and  far  into  the  night  the  huge 
hammers  are  rising  and  falling.  These  are  the  ma- 
chines of  man  at  labour  on  the  material  of  God. 

Even  as  Dicky  stood  there  upon  the  kerbstone, 
with  the  small  bundle  of  his  belongings  held  tightly 
in  his  hand,  he  felt  the  faint  oppression  of  a  power 
mightier  than  himself;  thrusting  it,  however,  away 
from  him,  he  enquired  his  way  to  Fleet  Street  and 
set  off  there  on  foot. 

In  those  days  the  offices  of  the  Evening  Herald 
were  situated  in  antiquated  premises  in  Whitefriars 
Street,  and  to  these  offices  Dicky  carried  his  letter 
of  introduction.  J.  H.  Marlow,  to  whom  it  was 
addressed,  was  one  of  the  sub-editors  on  the  paper, 
a  position  conveying  power  and  importance  to  the 
mind  of  Dicky,  who  gave  his  name  to  the  office  boy 
with  a  cheerful  confidence  and  took  his  seat  in  the 
untidy  waiting  room  full  of  expectation. 

Occasionally,  as  he  sat  there,  men  in  their  shirt 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sleeves  passed  by,  thrusting  their  heads  in  at  the 
door  and  going  away  again.  For  the  first  three  or 
four  times  he  half  rose  to  his  feet  in  anticipation, 
but  not  one  of  them  was  the  man  he  expected.  Three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  went  by  and  he  still  waited.  At 
last,  catching  sight  of  the  office  boy,  he  enquired  if 
Mr.  Marlow  had  been  told. 

"What  name  was  it?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Furlong,"  said  Dicky. 

With  an  effort  of  memory,  the  boy  recalled  the 
name  and  informed  Dicky  that  he  would  not  have 
much  longer  to  wait.  Yet  still  the  minutes  slipped 
away,  while  Dicky  learnt  yet  another  aspect  of  his 
own  insignificance.  At  length,  when  his  patience 
was  almost  exhausted  and  he  had  risen  to  his  feet 
to  go,  a  man,  in  shirt  sleeves  like  the  rest,  looked 
hurriedly  into  the  room. 

"Your  name  Furlong?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  Dicky. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I've  got  a  letter  of  introduction  here  from  Mr. 
Hollom." 

He  brought  it  out  of  his  pocket,  feeling  that  now 
at  last  the  door  was  open  and  his  foot  upon  the 
threshold.  Marlow  took  it  hurriedly  and  extracted 
the  letter  from  the  envelope.  Dicky  watched  him 
while  he  read  it,  finding  a  sense  of  disappointment 
in  his  mind  that  this  man,  who  was  a  sub-editor  and 
a  friend  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Hollom,  was  so  insignifi- 

15 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

cant  both  in  manner  and  appearance.  His  face  was 
pallid  and  thin.  The  eyes  were  small  and  close  to- 
gether, the  head  narrow,  the  forehead  high  but 
pinched.  The  very  hastiness  in  all  he  said  and  did 
was  not  that  of  a  busy  man,  but  of  one  who  likes 
to  imagine  himself  pressed  for  time.  In  his  short 
acquaintance  with  journalists,  Dicky  soon  learnt  that 
this  was  no  uncommon  pose.  The  hurry  of  going 
to  press,  the  occasional  stress  of  emergency,  all 
tended  to  make  them  assume  a  constant  attitude  of 
half-bewildered  concentration.  At  first,  with  Mar- 
low  he  thought  it  to  be  genuine  pressure,  and  the 
effect  of  it  upon  his  mind  was  one  of  disappointment. 

When  he  had  read  the  letter,  Marlow  looked  up. 

"Is  this  Charles  Hollom?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  yes.  Then  he  was  at  Oriel  with  me.  Well, 
he  wants  me  to  get  you  something  to  do.  Illustrat- 
ing, I  suppose,  or  something  like  that;  but  we  don't 
have  illustrations  on  the  Herald  for  our  stories,  only 
fashion  designs,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  do 
anything  like  that." 

"I  shouldn't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied 
Dicky. 

"No,  and,  besides,  we've  got  our  regular  staff  for 
that.  Have  you  done  any  illustration  work?" 

"No,  but  that's  what  I  think  I  could  do." 

Well,  I'd  better  introduce  you  to  Channing.  He's 
on  an  illustrated  magazine — The  Feather.     I  shall 

16 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

be  seeing  him  at  lunch.  You'd  better  come  and  have 
lunch  with  us.  Have  you  got  anything  you  can  do 
till  one  o'clock?" 

"I've  got  to  find  a  room  somewhere,"  said  Dicky; 
"just  a  bedroom — that's  all  I  want." 

"Well,  you'd  better  try  round  about  me.  I've  got 
rooms  in  Long  Acre.  You  might  find  something 
there,  in  Drury  Lane  or  Great  Queen  Street.  Do 
you  know  where  that  is?" 

"No." 

"If  you  go  up  into  Fleet  Street,  anyone'll  tell  you. 
It  isn't  far.  Then  you  come  back  here  at  one 
o'clock." 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Dicky  gratefully. 

Marlow  looked  at  him  in  surprise  and  then  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room. 

In  Fleet  Street  Dicky  was  told  the  way  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  Drury  Lane,  and  there,  at  the 
junction  between  Long  Acre  and  Great  Queen 
Street,  he  contemplated  a  notice  in  the  window  of  an 
oil  shop :  Bedroom  to  let,  for  a  single  gentleman. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  walked  inside.  In  the 
dimly  lit  interior  smelling  fiercely  of  paint  and  par- 
affin and  soap,  he  waited  at  the  greasy  counter  until  a 
woman  emerged  from  a  room  at  the  back,  concealed 
by  piles  of  hardware,  of  brushes,  brooms  and  mats. 

She  rubbed  her  hands  across  her  eyes  and  said: 
"Yes?" 

"You  have  a  bedroom  to  let,"  said  Dicky. 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes,  but  you  can't  see  it  now,"  she  replied. 

"Isn't  it  to  let,  then?" 

"Yes,  but  a  gentleman  only  went  out  of  it  this 
morning,  and  I  'aven't  got  it  tidy  yet." 

"How  much  is  it  a  week?" 

"Five  shillings." 

"Does  that  include  breakfast?" 

She  dragged  a  hair  out  of  the  corner  of  her  mouth 
and  gazed  at  him. 

"You  want  a  lot,  don't  yer?"  said  she.     "Yer 
can  'ave  breakfast  if  yer  like — but  it'll  be  another 
'alf  crown.     Bacon  and  heggs  you'll  get  for  that — 
and  tea  or  coffee  if  yer  prefer  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Dicky;  "that'll  do.     I  can  leave 
my  things  here,  and  you  can  put  them  up  in  the  room 
when  it's  ready.     I'll  be  back  this  evening." 
'  'Ow  long  do  you  want  the  room  for?" 

"Oh,  a  good  time,  I  should  think." 

"Fortnight?" 

"Longer  than  that,  I  expect." 

Her  face  changed.  For  a  moment  she  wore  a 
more  agreeable  expression. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  she.  "I'll  'ave  it  nice  and 
clean  for  yer  by  six  o'clock.  You  get  in  this  way 
through  the  shop.  It's  a  bit  smelly — but  you'll  get 
used  to  that  if  you're  goin'  to  be  'ere  a  fortnight. 
Nobody  minds  it  after  a  day  or  two.  I  like  it  my- 
self." 

18 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  mind  it,"  said  Dicky. 
"Here  are  my  things." 

"Is  there  another  box  coming?"  she  enquired. 

"No." 

"Well,  if  yer  pay  yer  week  in  advance,  I  suppose 
that  won't  matter.  Very  well,  then — six  o'clock. 
Like  a  cup  o'  tea  when  yer  come  in?" 

"Please,  yes." 

And  so  Dicky  found  his  first  abode  in  London. 


CHAPTER    III 

IN  an  upper  room  of  a  tavern  at  the  gates  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  where  one  enters  into  Crown 
Office  Row,  Dicky  was  taken  to  lunch.  It  all 
gave  the  impression  of  being  very  grand  to  him,  ap- 
peared to  be  very  closely  an  acquaintance  with  Life. 
For  at  the  large  table  where  they  had  their  meal 
there  were  many  journalists  who  were  well  known 
in  Whitefriars  and  had  a  reputation  even  in  Fleet 
Street.  It  seemed  to  Dicky  that  he  was  dining  with 
men  well  known  to  the  world  at  large.  Marlow  was 
acquainted  with  them  all  and  nodded  to  them.  Some 
of  them  nodded  to  him  first.  But  when  it  was  he 
who  led  the  salutation  he  generally  told  Dicky  in  an 
undertone  who  it  was. 

"See  that  chap?"  said  he,  after  one  of  these 
greetings  which  had  formally  been  acknowledged  to 
him.  "That's  Shirlaw." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Shirlaw — why,  he's  the  editor  of  The  Feather. 
He's  written  a  book — a  novel.  I  haven't  read  it — 
it's  not  up  to  much." 

"Thought  you  said  Mr.  Channing  was  the  editor 
of  The  Feather?"  said  Dicky. 

20 


"No — Lord,  no.  Channing's  a  sub.  Shirlaw  runs 
it  for  Leader.  But  he's  going  to  start  one  on  his 
own.  It'll  be  huge.  You  may  get  a  chance  to  do 
some  work  on  that.  That's  the  best  of  Fleet  Street 
— you're  in  touch  with  every  new  thing  that's  start- 
ing and  can  get  there  before  anyone  else." 

Dicky  felt  the  world  stretching  out  in  front  of 
him.  Just  a  little  work,  and  with  what  money  he 
had  he  would  be  able  to  attend  the  night  classes  at 
a  school.  Just  a  little  work — that  was  all;  and 
there  he  was  in  Fleet  Street  at  the  same  table  with 
these  men  who  could  give  it  to  him  and  set  him  fairly 
on  that  road  to  the  city  of  his  dreams. 

He  ate  but  little  at  that  lunch.  So  much  was  being 
said  that  thrilled  his  mind  to  listen.  Men  spoke 
familiarly  of  the  great  politicians.  One  of  them 
even  alluded  to  his  conversation  with  a  member  of 
the  cabinet  whose  name  Dicky  had  often  heard  his 
father  mention  with  grave  respect. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  he  asked  Marlow  in  a 
whisper. 

"That  fellow  with  the  eyeglass?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh — that's  Jevens — he's  a  free  lance — writes 
for  any  paper  that'll  take  his  stuff.  Says  he  makes 
as  much  as  twenty  pounds  a  week  sometimes." 

"I  didn't  know  you  could  make  as  much  as  that," 
said  Dicky  simply. 

21 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes!  Shirlaw  gets  close  on  twelve 
hundred  a  year  certain." 

Dicky  regarded  the  great  man  with  awe.  He  was 
mopping  up  the  gravy  on  his  plate  with  a  crust  of 
bread  which  he  held  in  his  fingers,  a  thing  Dicky 
had  wanted  to  do  with  a  fork  all  his  life  until  con- 
stant forbiddance  of  it  had  made  him  regard  it  in 
the  light  of  bad  manners. 

"Is  Mr.  Shirlaw  a  gentleman?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently, and  there  was  only  this  thought  in  his  mind. 
It  was  the  question  of  a  schoolboy,  but  Marlow  took 
it  to  be  the  enquiry  of  a  snob. 

"If  you're  looking  for  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "you're 
wasting  time  in  Fleet  Street."  And  he  meant  it  to 
be  a  rebuke,  but  Dicky  took  it  as  the  truth. 

For  some  time  after  that  he  was  silent,  listening 
only  to  the  discussions  and  schemes  for  the  new 
magazine  which  Shirlaw  was  to  run.  He  felt  then 
that  he  was  in  the  tide  of  great  enterprise.  He  did 
not  know  at  that  time  how  many  such  schemes  had 
been  discussed  before ;  how  one  and  all  of  them  had 
tumbled  to  the  ground. 

Even  those  who  entered  most  earnestly  into  the 
conversation  forgot  the  failures  that  had  gone  be- 
fore, the  numberless  ideas  that  had  been  raised  for 
new  magazines,  new  papers,  and,  for  want  of  that 
magic  power  of  finance,  had  smouldered  out  and 
been  trodden  into  the  dust. 

22 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"See  that  little  chap  next  to  Shirlaw,"  said  Mar- 
low  presently. 

Dicky  nodded. 

"That's  Bentley — he's  finding  the  money  for  the 
new  magazine — there's  a  fellow  he  knows  on  the 
Stock  Exchange — worth  thousands.  He's  going  to 
finance  the  whole  business.  I  think  I'm  going  to 
write  some  articles  for  them.  I've  got  a  splendid 
idea  for  a  series — they  could  run  one  every  month — 
about  a  couple  of  thousand  words.  They'd  be  able 
to  pay  five  guineas  an  article.  That  'ud  make  a 
nice  little  sixty  a  year  more  for  me.  They'd  be  jolly 
good,  too,  if  they  were  illustrated.  You  might  let 
me  see  some  of  your  sketches,  and  then  perhaps  you 
could  do  them.  They'd  pay  you  for  them  all  right." 

"How  much?"  asked  Dicky,  and  he  knew  his 
heart  was  beating  quicker. 

"Oh,  about  a  guinea  each.  There'd  probably  be 
two  to  each  article." 

"That  'ud  be  twenty-five  pounds  a  year,"  said 
Dicky. 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  it  all  counts.  They  wouldn't 
take  you  much  more  than  an  hour  each  one." 

"Oh,  I  should  take  more  than  an  hour  over  them," 
replied  Dicky  with  earnestness.  "I  should  do  them 
as  well  as  I  could." 

"Well,  I'll  just  tell  you  the  sort  of  article  it's 
going  to  be.  I've  had  this  idea  for  some  time,  and 

23 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

I've  just  been  waiting  to  plant  them  with  a  new 
magazine — the  Herald's  not  good  enough." 

Forthwith,  then,  he  described  to  Dicky  his  idea 
for  a  series  of  articles  that  every  paper  to  which  he 
had  offered  them  had  refused.  And  Dicky  listened, 
leaving  untouched  the  food  on  the  plate  before  him, 
sometimes  wondering  how  Marlow  could  eat  and 
talk  so  much  at  the  same  time. 

At  last  the  men  began  to  rise  from  the  table,  and 
Dicky  was  taken  across  the  room  to  be  introduced 
to  Channing,  whom  Marlow  a  moment  later  led 
aside. 

"Don't  put  yourself  out,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "I 
haven't  seen  any  of  his  work.  He  looks  as  if  he 
might  do  something.  A  chap  I  knew  up  at  Oriel 
sent  him  with  a  letter  of  introduction.  Has  Shirlaw 
got  the  money  for  the  new  magazine?" 

Channing  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  believe  he  has.  Bentley  told  me  this 
morning  that  the  fellow  on  the  Stock  Exchange  was 
not  going  to  fork  up." 

"Has  he  told  Shirlaw?" 

"Not  yet — Shirlaw  'ud  drop  him  like  a  hot  spud 
if  he  knew — and  Bentley's  trying  to  place  those  short 
stories  of  his  with  us.  What's  the  name  of  this 
kid?" 

"Furlong.    Comes  from  Gloucestershire,  I  think." 

"Well,  I'll  take  him  over  with  me  to  the  office.  I 
think  I've  got  something  he  can  do." 

24 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Full  of  expectancy,  with  this  first  glimpse  of  a 
radiant  future  shimmering  before  his  eyes,  Dicky 
followed  Channing  down  to  the  office  of  The 
Feather.  For  half  an  hour  he  sat  there,  listening 
to  the  sub-editor's  schemes  for  supplementing  the  in- 
come he  already  received.  There  were  stories  he 
was  writing  for  this  paper — stories  for  that;  a  book 
he  was  going  to  do  which  some  publishing  house  had 
promised  to  read  with  the  greatest  consideration.  A 
certain  well-known  author  he  had  written  to  was  on 
the  point  of  letting  him  dramatise  one  of  his  books. 

"He  doesn't  know  it,"  said  Channing,  laughing, 
"but  I  wrote  a  stinging  review  of  it  in  the  Herald. 
It's  a  rotten  book,  but  it  ought  to  make  a  good  play. 
Of  course,  if  I'd  known  he  was  going  to  let  me 
dramatise  it,  I  shouldn't  have  written  it  like  that. 
But  these  authors  are  conceited  bounders — they  want 
taking  down  a  bit." 

And  through  all  this,  ready  enough  to  listen, 
Dicky  felt  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  man 
touching  the  fringe  of  fame.  With  one  so  little 
versed  in  the  ways  of  Fleet  Street,  this  was  an  op- 
portunity for  egotism  which  Channing  could  not  deny 
himself.  The  more  he  saw  the  impression  he  was 
making  on  Dicky's  ready  mind,  the  higher  rose  the 
flights  of  his  imagination  as  he  related  all  the  things 
he  was  going  to  do,  until  it  almost  seemed  to  him,  as 
he  enumerated  them,  that  there  really  was  a  chance 
of  some  of  them  being  done. 

25 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Of  course  I  can  help  you  a  good  deal,"  said  he 
presently.  "You  won't  find  Marlow  much  good,  but 
I  can  put  quite  a  few  things  in  your  way.  There  are 
all  my  stories.  As  soon  as  I  place  them  I  can  sug- 
gest you  to  the  editor  for  the  illustrations." 

Dicky  felt  that  this  world  of  Fleet  Street  was 
filled  with  generous  men.  In  Marlow's  defence,  he 
told  Channing  how  he  had  been  promised  the  illus- 
tration of  his  articles. 

Channing  laughed. 

"I  Know  those  old  articles,"  he  said.  "He  tried 
to  get  us  to  take  'em  here.  He'll  never  place  'em. 
He's  all  right  as  a  sub-editor,  but  he  couldn't  do  any- 
thing original  for  the  life  of  him.  Don't  say  I  said 
that,  but  everybody  knows  it  except  him." 

For  one  moment  Dicky's  heart  fell.  But  in  the 
first  instance  he  had  thought  little  of  Marlow.  He 
was  not  surprised  that  this  opinion  was  held  of  him. 
His  heart  rose  again  immediately  at  the  thought  of 
all  the  work  that  Channing  could  give  him  to  do. 

"I  want,"  said  he  presently,  "I  want  to  make  about 
a  hundred  a  year — that'll  keep  me  all  right,  and  I 
shall  be  able  to  attend  night  classes  at  one  of  the  art 
schools.  Do  you  think  I  should  ever  be  able  to  do 
that?" 

Channing  laughed  again,  and,  still  smiling,  he 
pulled  out  a  wash  drawing  from  under  a  heap  of 
papers  on  his  desk.  He  handed  it  to  Dicky. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked. 
26 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  held  it  for  a  moment  in  his  hand,  then  he 
laid  it  down. 

"Is  it  an  illustration  on  your  magazine?"  he  en- 
quired. 

"Yes.     Say  what  you  think." 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  did  it  in  a  hurry,"  said  Dicky 
presently.  "It — it  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"How  doesn't  mean  anything?" 

"Well,  those  trees — they're  only  lines  and  out- 
lines. There's  no  air  in  it — those  people  might  just 
as  well  be  in  a  room — they  aren't  out  of  doors." 

Frankly,  Channing  thought  he  was  talking  non- 
sense, and,  from  the  point  of  view  of  illustrated 
journalism,  undoubtedly  he  was. 

"The  figures  are  all  right,"  said  Channing.  "I 
don't  say  it's  a  picture,  but  it's  the  sort  of  thing  we 
want.  Anyhow,  that  chap  makes  his  five  hundred  a 
year — and,  if  he  worked  a  bit  harder,  he  could  make 
more.  Do  you  think  you  could  do  as  good  as  that?" 

Now,  this  was  Dicky's  very  first  contact  with  the 
financial  side  of  art,  and  it  stirred  in  him  just  the 
same  spirit  of  contempt  as  when  the  stranger  in  the 
train  had  spoken  of  the  dealers. 

"I  hope  to  heaven  I'll  never  do  anything  like  it," 
said  he  hotly.  "It's  not  worth  doing." 

"It's  worth  two  guineas  to  him,"  replied  Chan- 
ning. "You'll  have  to  get  rid  of  these  high  and 
mighty  ideas  if  you're  going  to  make  your  living 
at  it." 

3  27 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Well,  give  me  a  chance  and  let  me  see  what  I 
can  do/'  retorted  Dicky,  and  the  keen  note  of  confi- 
dence in  his  voice  persuaded  Channing  to  hand  him 
a  story  the  illustrations  for  which  were  already  as 
good  as  placed  with  another  man. 

"Take  those  proofs  home,"  he  said,  "and  see  what 
you  can  do  with  them.  Three  illustrations  we  want 
— one  full  page.  If  you  can  get  them  done  by  the 
end  of  the  week  I  might  be  able  to  get  them  in." 

He  knew  there  was  not  the  faintest  chance  of 
Dicky's  drawings  ever  being  used,  but  it  gave  a 
flourish  to  the  end  of  their  conversation;  it  made 
him  seem  the  man  in  command. 

He  smiled  to  himself  when  Dicky  had  gone,  but 
in  the  back  of  his  mind  was  some  suspicion  that  he 
had  been  talking  to  a  better  man  than  himself. 

"Enthusiastic  beggar,"  he  thought;  "but  he'll  get 
it  knocked  out  of  him."  He  remembered  his  own 
ambitions  when  first  he  began.  "It  won't  last,"  he 
thought.  "They  never  do,"  and,  with  a  sigh  which 
he  did  not  even  hear  himself,  he  took  up  the  scissors 
from  the  table  and  cut  a  joke  out  of  an  American 
paper  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER   IV 

IN  a  little  bedroom  under  the  slates  of  Mrs. 
Baldwin's  oil  shop,  Dicky  drank  the  cup  of  tea 
which  that  good  lady  had  brought  him,  and 
seated  himself  down  to  the  first  real  work  he  had 
ever  had  to  do.  In  his  father's  mill  in  Gloucester- 
shire it  had  been  labour,  not  work.  Even  at  that  age, 
Dicky  knew  the  difference.  From  labour  he  had  run 
away,  and  to  work  he  had  come  sooner  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed  of  in  his  wildest  hopes.  Would  his 
father  call  it  nonsense  now  if  he  knew  that,  on  the 
very  first  day,  he  had  been  commissioned  for  work 
that  would  bring  him  in  as  much  as  the  Mill  itself 
could  earn  in  a  whole  week?  Would  his  Dorothy 
think  he  had  played  such  havoc  with  their  chances  of 
marriage  if  she  knew  the  brilliance  of  the  future  that 
stretched  before  him?  He  looked  around  the  little 
room  with  its  small  iron  bedstead,  its  yellow  painted 
deal  washhand  stand  and  chest  of  drawers,  and  he 
smiled. 

The  sounds  of  London  came  through  his  open 
window.  Already  he  was  beginning  to  find  in  them 
the  impetus  that  they  bring  to  some,  and  as  yet  was 
all  unconscious  of  the  bitter  monotony  they  mean  to 

29 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

others.  There  was  a  small  square  of  linoleum  before 
his  washhandstand — that  was  all  the  covering  that 
the  floor  of  his  bedroom  offered;  there  was  no  view 
along  the  road  to  Bredon  Hill  from  his  window;  it 
looked  out  onto  the  roofs  and  chimney  stacks  of 
Great  Queen  Street,  and  not  a  flower  or  a  green 
thing  was  in  sight.  No  birds  sang  there.  A  few 
sparrows  with  raucous  voices  squabbled  and  chat- 
tered on  the  roof  tops.  Yet  it  all  was  a  magic  place 
to  him.  He  saw  himself  returning  to  it  evening 
after  evening  when  his  work  at  the  night  classes  was 
finished.  The  sheets  on  the  bed  and  the  towels  were 
clean — they  were  clean  that  night,  at  least.  What 
more  could  one  want  in  the  world  than  this — this 
and  the  first  work  he  had  ever  done.  In  the  fresh 
enthusiasm  of  it,  he  stood  at  the  chest  of  drawers 
and  wrote  his  first  letter  to  Dorothy.  Therein  he 
painted  all  the  glowing  pictures  that  were  in  his 
mind. 

"In  less  than  a  year's  time,  I'm  sure,"  he  wrote, 
"we  shall  be  married."  What  was  there,  indeed,  to 
prevent  it?  The  hundred  pounds  a  year  he  had 
hoped  to  make  was  by  this  time  doubled  in  his  bound- 
less imagination.  He  might  not  be  able  to  draw 
figures  so  well  as  in  the  illustration  which  had  beeft 
shown  him,  but  that  would  come  with  his  work  at 
the  night  schools,  and,  in  the  meantime,  he  knew  that 
into  his  pictures  he  could  put  such  meaning  and  such 

30 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

depth  as  must  arrest  the  attention  of  all  those  men 
he  had  met  that  day. 

Art  was  a  great  thing — a  great  influence.  Even 
in  such  a  commonplace  service  of  it  as  illustration  a 
man  might  put  all  he  knew.  Then  he  believed  that 
every  man  did  his  best;  indeed,  that  their  best  was 
all  men  asked  of  them. 

"As  soon  as  these  pictures  come  out  in  the  maga- 
zine," another  part  of  his  letter  ran,  "I'll  send  you 
a  copy,  and  you'll  see  my  name  up  in  the  corner. 
I'm  going  to  do  the  very,  very  best  I  can.  You'll  see 
Bredon  Hill  in  one  of  them — just  as  it  is  on  October 
evenings  when  the  mist  creeps  up  it  through  the  May 
trees.  I'll  make  them  see  the  country  as  I've  seen 
it.  Isn't  it  grand  to  have  work  to  do  so  soon?" 

And  then  he  wandered  on,  questioning  her  as  to 
how  his  father  had  taken  his  escape  from  the  Mill — 
whether  he  had  said  anything  about  following  him 
to  London. 

"He  may  follow  me,"  he  wrote,  "but  nothing  on 
earth  would  bring  me  back.  I  don't  care  about  not 
being  twenty-one.  That  can't  really  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  If  I'd  stayed  on  at  the  Mill,  I  should 
have  been  less  a  man  at  twenty-one  than  I  am  here 
at  eighteen  with  my  own  work  to  do." 

In  this  letter  to  Dorothy  Leggatt  he  enclosed  one 
for  his  sister  Anne,  one  for  his  friend,  Mr.  Hollom. 

"I  don't  want  the  pater  to  know  my  address," 
he  wrote  to  Anne,  "so  Dorothy  will  give  this  to  you. 

31 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

I'll  write  all  my  letters  this  way.  London's  a  tre- 
mendous place."  He  had  the  sounds  of  the  traffic 
in  his  ears  as  he  wrote  that.  "I  had  lunch  with  a 
lot  of  journalists  to-day  in  an  old  tavern  near  the 
Temple — that's  where  the  barristers  live.  One  of 
the  men  was  an  author,  another  knew  one  of  the 
ministers  of  the  cabinet.  I  can  tell  you  it's  something 
like  being  in  the  world  to  be  here.  And  somehow 
the  noise  of  all  the  carts  in  the  street  reminds  me 
of  the  Mill  when  it's  working." 

How  nearly  it  was  like  the  grinding  of  those  old 
mill  wheels  he  scarcely  knew  then.  How  closely  he 
and  all  around  him  resembled  the  dust  of  flour  the 
stones  ground  out,  he  could  not  be  supposed  to 
understand.  It  was  just  a  tremendous  place ;  as  tre- 
mendous as  the  great  stones  are  to  the  grain  of 
corn. 

His  letter  to  Mr.  Hollom  was  short ;  perhaps  be- 
cause in  the  back  of  his  mind  he  knew  that  he  would 
realise  his  difficulties.  Dicky  did  not  boast  so  much 
in  this.  He  struck  the  enthusiastic  note  with  a  firm 
hand,  but  said  nothing  of  all  the  money  he  knew  he 
was  going  to  earn. 

"Lunch  to-day  with  Mr.  Marlow,"  he  wrote, 
"cost  two  shillings  and  eightpence.  I  can  easily  see 
how  quickly  money  goes  in  London.  I  sha'n't  have 
a  lunch  like  that  again.  But  it  was  worth  it.  How 
can  I  ever  thank  you  enough  for  that  letter  of  intro- 
duction or  the  money  you've  lent  me.  I  shall  soon 

32 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

be  able  to  pay  it  back.  Tell  me  what  the  pater  says. 
I  suppose  he'll  be  in  a  fearful  rage." 

It  showed  Mr.  Hollom,  as  he  read  it,  how  little 
these  two  had  understood  each  other. 

That  night,  as  Dicky  worked  at  his  first  drawing, 
Mr.  Furlong  in  the  Mill  at  Eckington  sat  silently 
in  his  armchair.  Even  Mr.  Hollom's  offer  to  play 
chess  with  him  was  refused. 

"I  don't  think  I  could  quite  give  my  mind  to  it 
this  evening,"  said  he,  but  pride  in  himself  would 
not  allow  him  to  show  that  it  was  anxiety  for  his 
son  which  troubled  him.  With  an  open  book  upon 
his  lap,  he  sat  staring  at  the  chair  which  once  his 
wife,  Christina,  had  occupied,  wondering  if,  in  that 
heaven  he  so  firmly  believed  in,  she  knew  of  it  all 
and  approved. 

And  far  into  the  night,  under  those  slates  of  the 
oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane,  Dicky  worked  with  a  tire- 
less energy,  until  the  candle  guttered  and  the  flame 
sank  into  darkness.  Then  he  found  his  way  to  the 
bed.  In  that  one  hour  of  the  night  when  at  mo- 
ments you  can  hear  the  silence  of  London  he  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER   V 

BEFORE  the  end  of  the  week  had  arrived  the 
three  illustrations  were  finished.  For  the 
figure  of  the  woman  which  they  had  needed 
Dicky  had  employed  the  services  of  Miss  Constance 
Baldwin,  daughter  of  the  house,  a  young  girl  whose 
aspirations  rose  high  above  paraffin  and  the  needs 
of  the  shop  below.  She  had  a  voice  and  could  sing. 
The  sentimental  songs  they  sang  at  the  Middlesex 
music  hall  in  those  days  were  constantly  on  her  lips. 
People  in  the  shop  buying  their  pennyworth's  and 
their  halfpennyworth's  of  the  shop's  commodities 
would  turn  their  heads  and  listen  to  her  as  they 
waited  to  be  served.  Some  of  them  told  Mrs.  Bald- 
win that  they  had  heard  many  worse  on  the  real 
stage. 

And  this,  indeed,  was  her  ambition.  In  a  con- 
test of  amateur  talent  at  the  Middlesex  music  hall, 
where  the  prizes  were  awarded  according  to  the 
amount  of  applause  received,  she  had  been  placed 
second  amongst  thirty  aspirants.  She  would  have 
been  first  undoubtedly  had  it  not  been  for  an  enemy 
— and  women  have  so  many — who  led  a  band  of  dis- 
sension in  the  pit.  They  had  hissed  and  booed,  but 

34 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  applause  rose  higher.  Knowing  nothing  of  this, 
the  judges  accorded  her  second  place. 

She  told  Dicky  all  about  it  as  he  worked. 

"The  girl  who  got  first,"  she  informed  him,  "is 
making  two  quid  a  week  now  at  the  'Olborn." 

Their  conversation  those  two  or  three  days  while 
he  worked  was  stilted  and  brief.  She  found  he  did 
not  answer  her  questions,  and  after  a  time  would 
relapse  into  silence,  during  which  she  fidgetted  with 
little  adornments  on  her  dress. 

"Don't  you  ever  say  nothin'  when  you  work?" 
she  asked  him  on  the  third  day. 

"It's  difficult  to  talk  of  one  thing  and  think  of 
another,"  said  he. 

"But  you've  only  got  to  copy  the  lines,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  'ope  I  look  all  right.  The  manager  at 
the  Middlesex  said  Fd  got  a  good  figure." 

She  waited  patiently  for  his  acknowledgment  of 
it.  He  said  nothing. 

"Don't  you  think  I  'ave?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "yes — very  good,"  and  at  the 
moment  was  feeling  that  the  tone  of  his  distance  had 
not  all  the  mystery  he  desired. 

"Don't  say  it  as  if  you  was  certain,"  said  she.  "I 
should  'ave  thought,  bein'  an  artist,  you  ought  to 
know.  You  must  'ave  seen  plenty  of  women's  fig- 
ures. What  I  mean,  you  'ave  to  paint  'em  without 
any  clothes  on — don'tcher?" 

"I  shall  have  to,"  he  replied. 

35 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"What — 'aven't  you  done  it  yet?" 

"No." 

"Don't  see  'ow  you  can  call  yourself  an  artist, 
then.  I  thought,  after  drawing  straight  lines  and 
vases  and  things  like  that,  that  was  the  first  thing 
you  did."  She  paused  a  while,  contemplating  how 
she  would  like  to  be  in  such  a  situation.  Seeing  that 
she  had  a  good  figure,  it  might  perhaps  merely  be  a 
little  uncomfortable  for  the  moment — just  while  she 
felt  the  first  sensation  of  the  cold  air  on  her  skin — 
but  after  that — well,  she  knew  she  had  a  good  figure. 
"It  must  feel  funny  for  a  girl  to  stand  up  to  a  lot 
of  men  with  nothing  on,"  she  said.  "Don't  think  I 
should  like  to  do  it." 

Dicky  laid  down  his  drawing. 

"Well,  I've  finished,"  said  he.  "That's  all  I  shall 
want.  I  shall  have  to  go  out  somewhere,  to  a  res- 
taurant or  some  place,  to  make  a  sketch  for  the 


man." 


"Let's  'ave  a  look,"  she  begged. 

He  showed  it  to  her  without  hesitation. 

"But  that  ain't  like  me,"  she  said.  "It's  my  fig- 
ure, right  enough,  but  it  ain't  a  bit  like  my  face." 

That  was  true  enough.  So  far  as  a  portrait  could 
be  made  from  memory,  it  was  a  portrait  of  his 
Dorothy.  Who  else  could  he  have  thought  of  in 
that  scene  upon  the  road  from  Eckington  to  Bredon 
Hill? 

36 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I  didn't  mean  it  to  be  a  portrait,"  said  he  eva- 
sively. 

"But  it's  like  someone — ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  is." 

"Someone  you  know — eh?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  might  'ave  guessed  that,"  she  replied,  and,  had 
Dicky  been  eager  to  notice  it,  he  would  have  heard 
the  faint  little  note  of  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  what  am  I  going  to  give  you  for  all  these 
sittings?"  he  asked  quickly.  "I've  counted  it  up 
and  it's  five  hours  altogether." 

"I  don't  want  nothing,"  said  she,  and  the  same 
faint  note  was  still  there.  "If  I  couldn't  do  that 
much  to  'elp,  I'd  be  sorry  for  myself.  Take  me  out 
to  a  theatre  one  evening — that'll  do,  instead." 

Dicky's  mind  rushed  to  Dorothy.  He  thought  of 
that  day  when  she  had  said  of  him  how,  if  he  went 
to  London,  he  would  never  be  the  same.  A  sudden 
instinct  told  him  that  this  was  what  she  had  meant 
by  it.  But  he  would  be  the  same.  Not  London  nor 
any  place  in  the  world  should  change  him. 

"Won't  you  let  me  give  you  the  money?"  he  asked. 

"You  don't  want  to  take  me  to  the  theatre?" 

"It  isn't  that,"  he  urged. 

"You  think  she'd  mind  if  she  knew  of  it.  Well, 
if  she  wouldn't  let  you  take  a  girl  to  a  theatre — I 
don't  know — you  must  please  yourself.  I  don't  want 
the  money,  anyway." 

37 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

For  a  moment  she  waited.  There  was  just  a 
hope  in  her  mind  even  then.  It  was  tantalising  to 
be  refused.  She  thought  even  at  the  last  he  would 
change  his  mind.  Other  men  would  have  done  so. 
Pride  turned  her  heel  for  her  then.  She  opened  the 
door  and  closed  it  after  her.  Dicky  was  left  there 
alone  in  his  little  room,  conscious  of  a  faint  odour 
of  perfume  that  mingled  with  the  eternal  paraffin 
of  the  house. 

He  picked  up  the  picture  from  the  chest  of  draw- 
ers and  for  ten  minutes  sat  upon  his  bed,  looking 
at  it,  when  all  thoughts  of  Miss  Constance  Bald- 
win were  gone  from  his  mind. 

Working  at  them  for  the  rest  of  that  day  and 
the  next,  the  three  drawings  at  length  were  complete. 
Wrapping  them  up  in  brown  paper,  he  took  them 
down  to  the  offices  of  The  Feather  and  sent  in  his 
name  to  Channing.  This  time  at  least  he  expected 
to  be  sent  for  at  once.  They  knew  who  he  was; 
they  knew  what  he  had  come  for.  But  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  dragged  by,  as  they  had  done  at  the 
Herald  offices,  before  the  boy  looked  into  the  wait- 
ing room  and  told  him  to  come  this  way. 

Channing's  feet  were  resting  on  a  drawer  of  his 
desk  pulled  out  for  the  purpose.  He  was  smoking 
a  cigarette  and  drinking  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Hullo,"  he  said.  "Take  a  seat — what  have  you 
got  there?" 

38 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"The  three  illustrations,"  said  Dicky.  He  might 
have  known. 

"Oh,  you've  done  'em — have  you?" 

"Yes.  It  isn't  the  end  of  the  week  yet — but  I've 
worked  pretty  hard." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  them,"  said  Channing.  He 
stretched  out  a  hand. 

Dicky  took  them  out  of  their  brown  paper  wrap- 
ping. His  confidence  was  firm  enough,  but  he  knew 
his  heart  was  beating  very  quickly.  They  had  to 
be  approved  of  yet;  but  he  knew  they  were  better 
than  the  work  of  that  man  who  made  five  hundred  a 
year.  He  stood  there  and  watched  Channing's  face 
as  he  laid  first  one  and  then  another  out  upon  the 
desk  before  him.  He  tried  to  read  in  the  sub-edi- 
tor's expression  what  he  thought  of  them  before  he 
spoke.  Small  as  it  might  be,  he  knew  this  was  a 
critical  moment  in  his  life.  On  the  reception  of 
those  three  drawings  lay  all  his  immediate  chances 
of  work  in  the  art  schools. 

He  knew  he  had  a  whole  world  of  knowledge  to 
acquire,  and  that  only  through  the  medium  of  a 
conventional  art  education  would  he  ever  succeed 
in  getting  it.  The  acceptance  of  these  drawings 
meant  the  acceptance  of  other  work  to  come.  By 
these  illustrations  alone,  though  they  were  so  paltry 
to  the  work  he  meant  to  do,  he  could  make  the 
living  he  desired  to  enable  him  to  study,  and,  as 
he  watched  Channing's  face,  his  heart  lifted,  be- 

39 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

cause  he  saw  there  an  expression  of  satisfaction. 
Undoubtedly  Channing  was  satisfied,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment Dicky  little  guessed  the  reason.  The  illustra- 
tions of  this  story  had  already  been  sent  in  by  an 
artist  on  the  staff.  They  had  even  gone  to  the 
block  makers,  and  occasionally  during  those  four 
days,  while  Dicky  was  working  so  strenuously  in  his 
little  bedroom  over  the  oil  shop,  Channing  had  won- 
dered how  he  should  meet  the  enthusiasm  of  this 
boy  to  whom,  in  a  thoughtless  moment,  he  had  given 
the  work  to  do. 

Now  the  matter  was  simple  enough;  it  had  un- 
tangled itself.  No  wonder  he  felt  a  sense  of  satis- 
faction. The  drawings  were  utterly  impossible. 
With  a  firm  intention  to  be  magnanimous,  he  laid 
them  carelessly  on  one  side.  He  had  seen  so  much 
of  this  incompetence  before.  He  firmly  believed  it 
to  be  the  same — identically  the  same  waste  of  time 
and  energy  as  is  the  lot  of  all  these  journals  to 
witness. 

The  romance  of  all  art  is  that  it  seems  so  easy  to 
win,  so  generous  a  victory  to  come  by.  The  tragedy 
of  art,  which  Dicky  and  thousands  of  others  with 
him  come  to  London  to  learn,  is  that  they  must  suf- 
fer and  strive  and  inevitably  fail  who  would  come 
within  sight  of  their  ambition.  In  an  indefinite  and 
unobservant  way,  Channing  was  aware  of  all  this. 
He  considered  vaguely,  as  he  laid  the  drawings 
down,  how  this  was  but  another  conscript  in  the 

40 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

incompetent  army  of  workers  who  besiege  the  offi- 
ces of  all  the  journals  and  magazines  in  London. 
From  close  acquaintance  with  all  this  incompetency, 
these  men  on  the  staff  grow  falsely  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  their  own  superiority. 

Channing  felt  sorry  for  Dicky,  so  far  as  he  could 
feel  sympathy  for  any  man  who  was  useless  to  him ; 
but  he  was  satisfied  as  he  felt  it  that  this  boy  who 
had  held  himself  superior  to  one  of  their  regular 
workers  was  really  just  as  incapable  as  the  rest.  It 
convinced  him  that  he  knew  quite  well  what  he  was 
talking  about.  It  brought  him  that  warm  assurance, 
which  is  the  constant  belief  of  all  these  men  of  the 
press,  that  he  knew  the  public  taste. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  suppose  you  realise 
that  these  won't  do  at  all." 

Indeed,  he  was  sure  that  Dicky  must  know  it  as 
well  as  he  did  himself. 

The  quick  beating  of  Dicky's  heart  stopped  sud- 
denly. He  could  not  quite  believe  the  words  he  had 
heard. 

"Won't  do?"  he  repeated. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

With  but  the  slightest  observation,  a  man  would 
Have  been  sensitive  at  once  to  the  tragic  note  in 
Dicky's  voice.  Channing  caught  no  sound  of  it.  His 
hand  stretched  out  across  the  desk,  and  from  a  pile 
of  drawings  he  extracted  one  at  random. 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing  we  want,"  said  he.  "If 
you  want  to  get  on  to  any  of  these  papers,  that's  the 
sort  of  thing  you'll  have  to  do." 

Dicky's  eye  just  fell  upon  it,  then  looked  back  at 
his  own. 

"Why  must  I  do  what  other  men  are  doing?"  he 
asked. 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  slavishly  copy  them,"  replied 
Channing.  "This  fellow — Loftie — always  does  a 
certain  type  of  man  and  a  certain  type  of  woman. 
People  get  to  know  his  work  by  that.  They  look 
for  his  men  and  his  women.  I  don't  mean  that  you 
should  imitate  his  types — but  that's  the  style  of  stuff 
— clean,  good  outline,  a  nice  finish  about  it." 

"Mustn't  one  have  a  style  of  one's  own?"  de- 
manded Dicky.  "Mustn't  one  see  things  one's  own 
way  for  oneself?" 

"Not  if  you're  going  to  see  them  like  you've  got 
in  those  drawings." 

"What's  the  matter  with  them?"  persisted  Dicky. 

"Well — the  drawing's  weak — the  woman's  not 
bad,  in  a  way,  but  the  man's  rotten.  Then  there's 
not  enough  outline  about  them — they  sink  back  into 
landscape  too  much.  The  landscape's  not  bad,  but 
we  don't  want  a  landscape.  What  people  like  in 
an  illustration  is  to  see  the  characters  they're  read- 
ing about  and  see  'em  plainly." 

"Would  you  see  two  people  plainly  who  were 
42 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

standing  for  shelter  under  elm  trees,  and  the  rain 
was  pouring  down  from  heavy  clouds?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  I'd  see — it's  what 
I  know  the  public  want  to  see — and  you  can  take  it 
from  me,  as  a  good  thing  to  go  by,  that  what  the 
public  want  is  their  money's  worth.  They  don't 
want  to  think,  they  don't  want  to  see.  You've  got 
to  think  and  see  for  them." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  right,"  Dicky  retorted 
hotly.  "You  don't  want  them  to  think — you  don't? 
want  them  to  see,  because  you've  got  nothing  to 
make  them  think  about,  nothing  to  make  them  see !" 

For  a  moment  Channing  was  nonplussed.  The 
energy  with  which  Dicky  flung  out  the  words  almost 
brought  the  truth  of  it  home  to  him.  Then  dignity 
asserted  itself.  He  felt  that  his  superiority  was 
being  jeopardised.  He  asked  himself  why  he  was 
wasting  his  time  over  the  incompetence  of  a  young 
boy  who  knew  nothing  about  his  job. 

With  a  sudden  movement  he  collected  the  draw- 
ings and  thrust  them  towards  Dicky. 

"Oh,  take  your  blasted  drawings,"  said  he.  "I 
can't  waste  my  time  talking  to  you.  They're  no 
good — isn't  that  enough  for  you?  There  isn't  an 
editor  in  London  who'd  look  at  them  without  laugh- 
ing. Go  on — take  'em — we  don't  want  that  sort  of 
impressionist  stuff  here.  We  want  something  with 
an  artistic  finish." 

He  nodded  to  the  door,  and  without  another  word 

4  43 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  went.  He  walked  quickly  through  the  streets. 
The  heat  of  his  mind  hastened  his  footsteps.  If  any 
thought  was  conscious  to  him,  it  was  that  they  were 
all  wrong — that  he — if  he  was  alone  amongst  them 
all — that  he  was  right. 

That  he  had  failed  was  not  apparent  to  his  mind 
until  he  was  back  once  more  in  his  little  bedroom 
over  the  oil  shop.  Then  he  threw  the  drawings 
down  and  flung  himself  upon  the  bed. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  muttered.  "What  am  I  going 
to  do?"  For  in  that  first  moment  of  failure  cour- 
age had  left  him.  Indeed,  he  saw  nothing  but  fail- 
ure down  the  whole  length  of  that  long  road  he  had 
set  himself  to  walk.  And  so,  while  Dorothy  in 
Eckington  was  reading  for  the  twentieth  time  the 
glowing  promise  of  his  success,  Dicky  lay  on  his 
bed,  and  heavy  sobs  were  shaking  him  from  head 
to  foot. 

Down  in  the  parlour  room  below,  Mrs.  Baldwin 
heard  faintly  the  sounds  of  his  crying.  In  the  mak- 
ing of  her  accounts,  she  stopped  a  moment  to  listen, 
then  crept  upstairs.  He  did  not  hear  her  knocking 
on  the  door.  He  did  not  even  hear  her  entrance. 
His  head  was  buried  deeply  in  the  pillow. 

"Goodness  me,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  beside  his 
bed,  "what  'as  been  'appenin'  to  yer?" 

He  sat  up  quickly — quickly  turned  away  his  head. 

"Please  go  away,"  he  exclaimed.  "Nothing  is 
the  matter." 

44 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"But  there  must  be,"  she  persisted.  "A  young 
man  don't  go  and  cry  for  nothing.  Wasn't  the  hegg 
nice  I  sent  yer  up  this  mornin'?"  She  had  had  her 
suspicions  about  that  egg  for  some  time.  "What  is 
it?  You  can  tell  me.  I've  'ad  plenty  of  troubles.  I 
expect  you're  'omesick,  eh?  Comin'  all  the  way  from 
the  country  like  this,  Lunnon  do  seem  a  bit  strange. 
I  should  feel  just  the  same  if  I  went  down  into  the 
country.  I  did  once — and  them  trees  and  all  those 
green  fields  just  got  on  my  nerves — I  could  'ave 
screamed.  I  could — that's  a  fact.  Look  'ere — you 
come  down  and  'ave  a  cup  'o  tea  with  us  in  the  par- 
lour, and  Constance'll  sing  a  song  to  yer — that'll 
cheer  yer  up.  Come  on,  wipe  yer  eyes.  I  shall  'ave 
to  look  after  yer." 

She  took  his  arm,  and,  in  the  midst  of  this  mo- 
notonous business  of  her  oil  shop,  suddenly  felt  a 
mother  again. 

"I'll  come  presently,"  he  said.  "I'll  come  pres- 
ently." 

She  chose  the  wisest  course  and  left  him.  Down- 
stairs in  the  parlour  she  laid  out  the  tea  for  three. 

"Nice  boy  that,"  she  continually  muttered  to  her- 
self. "Nice  boy  that."  And  it  was  all  because  he 
had  made  her  feel  a  mother  again. 


CHAPTER   VI 

WHEN  Constance  came  into  the  parlour  and 
found  three  plates,  three  cups  and  sau- 
cers, she  said: 

"  'Oo  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Baldwin  nodded  to  that  region  of  the  house 
above  her  head. 

"  'E  came  back  this  afternoon,"  she  said.  "I  saw 
'im  come  through  the  shop  with  a  brown  paper  pack- 
age under  'is  arm — I  was  servin'  Mrs.  Watson  of 
Peabody  Buildin's  with  a  'apenny  worth  of  beeswax 
— I  think  it  was  a  'apenny  worth — I  wouldn't  be  sure. 
Then  I  came  up  'ere  to  do  some  accounts,  and  I  'card 
a  noise  upstairs.  Sounded  like  cryin',  but  I  didn't 
think  it  was  at  the  time — 'tis  difficult,  yer  know,  to 
tell — what  I  mean,  properly.  So  I  went  upstairs, 
and  there  'e  was  on  'is  bed,  sobbin'  'is  'eart  out." 

"Cryin'  over  'is  girl,  I  expect,"  said  Constance. 

"Wot?    'As  ?e  got  a  girl?" 

"Yes — down  at  'is  'ome,  I  expec'." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  began  cutting  some  bread  and 
butter. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  murmured.  "I  like  'im;  'e's  a 
nice  boy.  I  said  you'd  sing  to  'im  if  'e  came  down." 

46 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Constance  sniffed.  She  wondered  why  mothers, 
with  all  their  experience,  knew  so  little  of  the  world. 

"  'E  doesn't  want  to  'ear  me  sing,"  she  said. 
"Wot  an  idea — with  'im  sickenin'  for  someone  else. 
D'you  know  Mrs.  Collins's  baby's  dead?" 

"Never!" 

"It  is.  She  asked  me  if  I  thought  our  artist  gen- 
tleman 'ud  do  a  portrait  of  'im.  She  was  cryin' 
fearful." 

"Well — no  wonder — it's  'er  first.  Wot  did  you 
say?" 

"I  said  I'd  ask  'im.  She'll  give  as  much  as  five 
bob  if  'e'll  put  a  bit  of  colour  in  it." 

"Well,  you'd  better  ask  'im — per'aps  that'll  cheer 
'im  up  a  bit." 

When  Dicky  came  downstairs  they  said  nothing 
about  his  crying.  For  a  time  the  conversation  was 
very  strained,  the  silence  only  broken  by  the  audible 
sounds  made  by  Mrs.  Baldwin  as  she  ate  her  bread 
and  butter.  At  last  Constance  reproved  her. 

"Didn't  know  I  was  making  no  noise,"  she  said. 
"Wot  sort  of  noise?" 

"If  yer  don't  'ear  it  yerself,"  said  Constance,  "it 
ain't  much  good  tryin'  to  correct  it." 

And  this  was  the  most  awkward  moment  of  all 
to  Dicky.  He  was  amazed  that  Mrs.  Baldwin  did 
not  seem  to  mind.  In  fact,  she  appeared  to  be 
amused. 

"She's  always  correcting  me  like  that,"  she  said 
47 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

with  a  laugh.  "You  can  never  bring  your  children 
up  the  same  way  as  you  was  yourself.  They  get 
new  ideas  from  somewhere  or  other,  and  they're 
always  better'n  yours.  Tell  'im  about  Mrs.  Collins, 
Constance." 

Then  Dicky  was  told  of  his  first  commission,  the 
first  portrait  he  had  ever  been  asked  to  do.  It  was 
with  confused  sensations  that  he  listened  to  the  offer 
Mrs.  Collins  had  made.  There  was  something 
ironical  in  it — painting  the  portrait  of  a  dead  baby 
for  a  woman  who  probably  had  not  the  faintest  con- 
ception of  what  a  picture  should  be.  Yet  it  was  he 
who  had  been  asked.  They  had  thought  of  him  as 
an  artist  who  could  do  it.  They  were  going  to  pay 
him,  too.  There  was  no  question  here  about  his 
work  requiring  approval  before  it  was  accepted. 
Five  shillings  would  pay  for  his  room  for  a  whole 
week. 

So  it  revolved  in  his  mind.  After  all,  the  greatest 
artists,  every  one  of  them,  had  painted  babies  at 
some  time  or  another.  Why  should  he  not  make  a 
good  portrait  out  of  this?  There  was  a  subject  in 
it — there  was  a  subject  in  everything,  if  it  was 
treated  the  right  way.  He  could  treat  this  the  right 
way.  There  was  something  even  tragic  in  the 
thought  of  death  with  a  thing  so  young.  That  was 
how  it  began  to  appeal  to  him — as  tragedy — he 
would  paint  a  picture,  the  meaning  of  which  was 

48 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

tragedy  alone,  a  picture  which,  to  those  who  saw  it, 
would  tell  the  awful  finality  of  death. 

Yet  was  death  so  final,  after  all?  He  had  feared 
to  see  his  mother's  face  in  death,  but  he  remembered 
the  night  on  Eckington  Bridge,  when  first  he  had 
declared  his  love  for  Dorothy.  It  had  seemed  then 
that  they  might  have  died  together  and  death  would 
have  been  but  the  beginning.  Could  he  ever  get  that 
into  his  picture,  not  the  finality  of  death — but  the 
beginning,  the  setting  sail  afresh,  upon  a  journey 
which  was  none  the  less  real  because  it  was  so  mys- 
terious? Why  should  he  not  do  that?  There  was 
something  big  in  it — something  tremendously  worth 
doing.  In  a  little  child  the  sense  of  mystery  seemed 
most  wonderful  of  all.  It  was  mystery  he  would 
paint — the  mysterious  journey,  of  which  death  was 
but  the  raising  of  the  anchor,  the  first  great,  glorious 
setting  sail. 

In  his  mind  the  picture  was  already  painted.  In 
his  mind  it  was  already  named.  Mrs.  Collins  and 
her  dead  baby  no  longer  existed  for  him.  He  had 
found  a  subject.  He  would  call  his  picture  the  mys- 
terious journey. 

And  the  two  women  sat  there  by  him  at  the  table, 
wondering  how  long  he  would  be  before  he  said  that 
five  shillings  was  not  enough. 

At  last  he  looked  up. 

"I  think  death's  frightfully  interesting,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  glanced  at  her  daughter.     A  dis- 

49 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

turbing  suspicion  rose  in  her  thoughts  that  Dicky's 
mind  was  a  little  unbalanced.  How  could  death  ever 
be  interesting — frightfully  interesting?  To  her  it 
was  always  an  extremely  ugly  business,  about  which 
she  thought  as  little  as  possible.  He  had  never  seen 
people  die  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Drury  Lane,  or 
he  would  not  talk  nonsense  like  that.  The  face  of 
Constance  was  bewildered,  too.  She  turned  back 
and  looked  at  Dicky,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  say. 
But  she  could  not  leave  it  at  that. 

"You  won't  see  much  hinterest  in  it,"  she  said, 
"when  you  go  round  to  Peabody  Buildings.  It's  a 
first  child,  is  Mrs.  Collins's,  and  she's  taking  on 
about  it  terrible.  P'r'aps  you've  never  seen  a  dead 
person." 

"I  haven't,"  said  Dicky,  and  felt  rather  ashamed 
of  the  admission.  They  probably  thought  he  was 
very  young. 

"Thought  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Baldwin  with  relief. 
It  accounted  in  her  mind  for  the  peculiarity  of  his 
statement.  "I  don't  like  seein'  'em  myself.  Course 
we've  all  got  to  die — I  know  that — but  it  ain't  a 
thing  to  think  about.  Sometimes,  when  I  sees  myself 
lyin'  out  stiff " 

"Don't,  mother!"  Constance  exclaimed. 

"Well,  I  assure  you  it  makes  me  feel  quite  creepy 
sometimes.  I'm  not  hinterested  about  it  personally 
—myself." 

"I  don't  expect  you  know  quite  what  I  mean,"  said 
50 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky.  "You  talk  of  it  as  if  it  was  the  end  of  every- 
thing." 

"It  'ud  be  the  end  of  mother,"  said  Constance. 
"I  shouldn't  care  to  see  'er  goin'  on  in  the  shop  after- 
wards." 

"Well,  there's  no  need  to  picture  it  so  plainly," 
Mrs.  Baldwin  objected.  "I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  care 
to  go  on  myself,  once  it  was  all  over.  It  'ud  be 
a  rest,  any'ow — wouldn't  it — that  s  what  my  'usband 
said  just  as  'e  was  dying.  'It  will  be  a  rest,'  'e  said. 
But  this  ain't  saying  whether  'e's  goin'  to  paint  the 
picture  or  not." 

Dicky  put  down  his  cup  of  tea. 

"Of  course  I'm  going  to  paint  it,"  he  replied.  "I 
know  what  I'm  going  to  call  it." 

The  electric  shop  bell  rang.  Whoever  had  en- 
tered stood  persistently  on  the  mat  in  the  doorway 
with  every  apparent  determination  of  waiting  there 
until  they  were  served.  Mrs.  Baldwin  rose  with 
annoyance  to  her  feet. 

"I'll  get  a  bell  put  on  the  door,"  she  exclaimed. 
"Then  they  can  only  ring  it  once  when  they  come  in. 
Like  their  cheek!" 

They  could  hear  her  expostulations  all  the  way 
down  the  stairs,  accompanied  by  the  unvarying 
tinkle  of  the  bell.  A  door  slammed  as  she  entered 
the  shop.  Then  the  bell  suddenly  ceased. 

"And  she  was  as  proud  of  that  bell,"  said  Con- 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

stance,  "when  she  got  it  first.     She  used  to  smile 
every  time  it  rang." 

She  leant  forward  then  with  both  her  elbows  on 
the  tea  table.  She  was  glad  her  mother  had  gone. 
In  some  instinctive  way  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Baldwin 
did  not  understand  Dicky  in  the  least.  She  did  not 
understand  him  herself,  but  there  was  a  conscious- 
ness in  her  mind  that  she  wanted  to.  When,  in 
reply  to  what  he  had  said  about  death,  she  had  re- 
marked that  it  would  be  the  end  of  Mrs.  Baldwin, 
she  knew  that  if  her  mother  had  not  been  there  she 
would  have  said  something  more  serious  than  that. 
She  liked  talking  about  serious  things.  Sometimes 
at  night,  when  the  rest  of  the  house  was  in  bed,  she 
would  lean  out  of  her  window  and  think  what  a  big 
place  London  was,  wondering  how  many  people 
there  were  just  within  calling  distance  of  her  then — 
wondering  how  many  lovers  were  locked — she 
phrased  it  so — in  each  others'  arms.  And  that  was 
as  far  and  as  deep  as  her  serious  thoughts  could 
take  her.  But  her  sensations  went  deeper  than  that, 
however  impossible  it  was  to  express  them.  It 
was  something  like  this  that  she  meant  when  she  said 
that  she  liked  talking  about  serious  things.  How- 
ever, there  was  no  one  she  knew  who  would  talk  to 
her  about  them — no  one  in  Drury  Lane.  Yet  here 
was  somebody.  She  felt  certain  that  Dicky  could 
talk  about  serious  things. 

52 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"What  are  you  going  to  call  the  picture?"  she 
asked. 

Dicky  looked  at  her  quickly,  wondering  if  she 
would  understand.  There  was  an  indefinable  sug- 
gestion in  her  attitude,  in  the  look  in  her  eyes,  mak- 
ing him  snatch  at  the  belief  that  she  would.  Per- 
haps the  need  for  understanding  is  half  the  impetus 
to  these  men  of  Dicky's  temperament.  Perhaps  the 
urging  desire  to  express  themselves  is  greatly  stimu- 
lated in  them  by  this.  Certainly  the  thought  that 
she  might  realise  his  meaning  caught  fast  upon  his 
mind.  He  leant  forward  in  his  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  call  it  'The  Mysterious  Journey,' ' 
said  he. 

She  nodded  her  head  in  acceptance  of  the  title,  as 
though  she  had  thoroughly  grasped  its  significance, 
yet  so  little  did  she  follow  it  that  she  was  forced 
to  ask  him  why. 

"Because  that's  what  I  believe  about  death,"  said 
he.  "It  isn't  the  end — it's  the  beginning — like  a 
ship  that  comes  into  port,  discharges  her  cargo,  re- 
loads and  starts  off  again.  And  don't  you  see  that's 
what  I  want  to  get  into  this,  not  the  feeling  of  the 
end — but  the  beginning." 

Constance  glanced  at  him  queerly.  These  were 
new  ideas  to  her.  With  some  effort  her  mind 
stretched  out  to  reach  them,  but  they  were  com- 
pletely beyond  her  grasp. 

53 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Where  does  it  go  to  when  it  starts  off  again?" 
she  asked. 

"Where  does  what  go?" 

"The  ship?" 

She  clung  strenuously  to  the  symbol.  So  far  as 
the  ship  was  concerned,  she  could  understand.  It 
was  quite  beyond  her  to  appreciate  what  it  had  to 
do  with  Mrs.  Collins's  dead  baby. 

"Well,  where  does  a  ship  go?"  said  he.  "Right 
— miles  across  the  sea  on  another  journey.  If  you 
saw  her  setting  sail — saw  her  dipping  down  below 
the  line  of  the  horizon  and  hadn't  the  faintest  idea 
what  part  she  was  making  for — there'd  be  a  certain 
amount  of  mystery  in  it  to  you,  wouldn't  there?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"I  suppose  there  would,"  said  she. 

She  chose  her  answers  warily.  There  was  nothing 
likely  to  commit  her  in  that,  for,  though  she  was  in- 
tensely interested,  knowing  instinctively  that  he  was 
talking  about  very  serious  things,  there  was  not  a 
word  of  it  she  understood.  In  some  confused  way, 
she  supposed  that  he  was  going  to  paint  a  picture 
of  Mrs.  Collins's  baby;  but  whether  he  was  going 
to  paint  it  on  a  ship  that  was  sailing  out  of  harbour, 
or  just  as  it  was  lying  on  that  bed  in  Peabody  Build- 
ings she  had  not  the  faintest  idea.  It  was  the 
wildest  rigmarole  to  her,  but  she  was  tremendously 
interested.  You  can  imagine  it  was  but  little  more 

54 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

than  a  wild  rigmarole  to  Dicky,  and  he  was  keenly 
interested,  too. 

He  was  possessed  with  the  same  sensations  as, 
when,  a  boy  in  the  country,  he  sometimes  believed 
as  he  lay  down  and  peered  into  the  forest  of  grass 
stems  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  discovering  the 
whole  secret  of  life.  No  doubt  it  is  a  sensation  we 
all  play  with  when  we  are  young.  We  grow  older, 
and  experience  teaches  us  that  the  secret  is  not  for 
our  discovery.  We  say  we  are  wiser  then  and  turn 
our  hands  and  thoughts  to  more  material  things. 
But  it  might  well  be  debated  whether,  after  all,  ex- 
perience is  so  wise  as  that  youthful  straining  to  the 
infinite. 

In  these  incoherent  speculations  upon  death,  Dicky 
was  struggling  with  all  the  impetuosity  of  youth 
and  ambition  for  the  unattainable.  Great  men  keep 
that  impetuosity  till  the  end.  Little  men  lose  it  no 
sooner  do  they  touch  life  and  learn  that  it  can  be 
very  comfortable  to  live.  You  will  see  how  long 
Dicky  kept  it — how  nearly  he  lost  it — how  at  the 
last  he  regained  it — how  great  or  how  small  a  man 
he  was. 

Here,  then,  they  sat,  these  two  children,  in  the 
parlour  sitting-room  over  the  oil  shop,  the  one  floun- 
dering in  such  deep  water  as  she  had  never  been  in 
before,  the  other  striking  out  with  all  the  vigorous 
strength  of  youth,  hardly  knowing  the  direction  in 
which  he  went,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  progress 

55 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

he  had  made.  He  did  not  even  realise  how,  with 
that  look  of  interest  in  her  eyes  alone,  she  was  urg- 
ing him  on  to  fresh  endeavour. 

"I  should  never  have  thought,"  said  he  at  last, 
"that  you'd  be  the  sort  to  be  interested  in  things 
like  that."  His  mind  even  wandered  to  a  wonder- 
ing if  Dorothy  would  have  shown  so  much  interest 
as  this  girl.  The  comparison  was  inevitable.  He 
was  just  touching  life  for  the  first  time.  Every  new 
thing  he  saw  he  compared  with  those  he  had  known. 
The  suspicion  that  he  was  ungenerous  to  Dorothy 
made  him  put  the  thought  away. 

"You  see  that's  how  I  want  to  paint,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  want  to  put  down  what  things  mean,  not 
simply  just  what  they  are.  I  tried  to  do  that  in  a 
way  with  those  illustrations  I  was  doing." 

"  'Ow  did  they  like  them?"  she  asked. 

"They  won't  have  them,"  said  he.  He  did  not 
care  by  now.  The  prospect  of  the  picture  he  was 
going  to  do  had  long  disposed  of  all  the  disappoint- 
ment he  had  suffered.  "They'll  never  take  anything 
of  mine  now.  I  had  a  row  with  the  man.  He  told 
me  to  take  the  blasted  things  away.  He  lost  his 
temper — so  did  I.  There's  no  more  chance  for  me 
there." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  counting  on  that,"  said 
Constance.  "You  told  me  that  was  'ow  you  were 
goin'  to  get  enough  to  go  to  the  art  schools." 

He  nodded  his  head. 

56 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

A  little  eagerly  she  leant  nearer  to  him  across 
the  table. 

"Was  that  why  you  were  crying  upstairs  on  your 
bed?"  she  asked. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Mother." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Of  course  she 
thought  he  was  a  fool.  But  how  was  she  to  guess 
all  that  the  loss  of  that  work  had  meant  to  him? 
It  had  only  been  for  the  moment.  He  cared  no 
longer  now.  He  knew  that  the  day  would  come 
when  he  could  make  Channing  eat  every  word  he 
had  uttered.  Did  the  money  matter  so  much?  He 
still  had  eleven  pounds  and  his  sketches  to  sell.  If 
he  sold  some  of  those,  he  could  do  others.  In  some 
way  or  another  he  was  sure  that  he  would  find  his 
way  to  the  schools.  What  seemed  most  of  all  to 
matter  at  the  moment  was  that  she  should  think 
him  a  fool.  He  did  not  stop  to  question  why  that 
should  be  so;  his  only  desire  was  to  efface  the  im- 
pression from  her  mind. 

"I  was  still  in  a  rage  then,"  said  he.  "I  don't 
care  a  bit  now.  Doing  those  illustrations  wouldn't 
have  done  me  any  good.  This  thing  I'm  going  to 
do  now's  a  million  times  better.  I  can  make  some- 
thing of  that." 

"But  you  were  crying,"  she  persisted,  and 
through  that  cockney  drawl,  which  he  had  disliked 

57 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

so  much  at  first,  there  sounded  a  note  which  fell  with 
a  strange  softness  and  pleasantness  on  his  ear. 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  an  awful  fool  for 
that,"  said  he. 

"I  wish  I'd  come  up  instead  of  mother,"  she  re- 
plied. 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  sense  of  overwhelming 
pleasure  in  his  mind  as  he  heard  her  say  it.  For  that 
moment,  too,  he  almost  wished  it  had  been  she  who 
had  come  up  and  spoken  to  him.  Not  knowing  how 
valiantly  she  had  struggled  in  complete  bewilder- 
ment of  all  he  had  been  saying,  he  thought  she 
would  have  understood.  And  then,  striking  swiftly 
in  upon  the  eagerness  of  that  moment,  came  the 
burning  remembrance  of  his  Dorothy.  He  stood  up 
at  once  like  one  accused. 

"How  about  this  Mrs.  Collins?"  said  he. 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  she  smiled. 

"You're  a  queer  boy,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER   VII 

PEABODY  BUILDINGS,  Drury  Lane,  is  one 
of  those  vast  tenement  erections  in  London, 
built  around  an  open  asphalt  square  which 
not  even  the  architect  would  presume  to  call  a  quad- 
rangle. There  are  no  hours  of  the  day  and  few 
of  the  night  when  this  square  is  silent ;  but  at  dinner 
time,  when  the  children  come  home  from  school, 
and  in  the  afternoon,  when  school  for  the  day  is 
over,  the  place  becomes  a  pandemonium.  Their 
shrieks  and  cries,  the  incessant  clatter  of  their  nailed 
boots  as  they  rush  up  and  down  on  the  hard  asphalt 
— for  this  and  the  streets  is  the  only  playground 
they  have — make  a  hell  on  earth  of  it  to  the  out- 
sider. To  those  who  live  within  and  have  become 
hardened  to  these  disturbances  it  is  home,  and  when 
you  have  said  that,  doubtless  you  have  accounted  for 
many  things. 

The  different  houses,  distinguished  only  by  their 
doorways,  are  lettered  from  A  to  Z.  In  other 
Peabody  Buildings  they  may  reach  to  the  end  of  the 
alphabet ;  in  Drury  Lane  they  extend  so  far  perhaps 
as  to  the  letter  N.  They  are  some  four  or  five 
stories  in  height,  and  on  each  floor  are  two  or  more 
5  59 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

habitations  consisting  of  three  cramped  rooms — a 
parlour-kitchen  and  two  bedrooms.  A  washhouse  is 
the  common  property  of  each  building.  Stone  stairs 
with  iron  railings  lead  up  to  each  floor,  and  a  wooden 
door,  like  that  of  a  prison  cell,  bearing  the  number 
of  the  habitation,  stands  in  the  bare  wall  upon  the 
bare  stone  landing,  showing  where  one  of  the  num- 
berless families  live.  In  this  confined  space  they 
give  forth  their  contribution  to  the  state  and  to 
that  teeming  mass  of  humanity  which  shrieks  and 
clatters  and  leaps  in  the  asphalt  square  below. 

In  all  seeming  unconsciousness  of  the  prisoned 
conditions  in  which  they  live,  there  stands  on  almost 
every  windowsill  a  small  wire  cage — some  not  more 
than  six  inches  by  six — in  which  a  silent  bird  mopes 
out  its  days  until  some  still  morning  when  it  finds 
its  great  deliverance.  On  a  few  more  windowsills 
there  are  flowers,  fighting  gallantly  against  the 
smoke.  They  stand  there  in  their  grimy  pots,  no 
longer  red,  the  eternal  proof  that  mankind  was 
turned  out  of  a  garden  and  is  forever  struggling  to 
get  back. 

In  number  nine  of  F  buildings,  with  the  sounds 
of  the  children  playing  in  the  asphalt  square  outside, 
Mrs.  Collins  sat  dejectedly  by  the  side  of  the  bed 
on  which  the  dead  body  of  her  baby  lay. 

You  might  imagine  that,  under  such  conditions  as 
these,  life  would  not  be  held  at  so  high  a  price.  One 
the  less,  it  would  seem,  in  these  prisons  must  be 

60 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

much  more  welcome  than  one  the  more.  Yet,  what- 
ever you  imagine,  you  know  well  that,  strangely 
enough,  this  is  not  so.  No  doubt,  as  Mrs.  Baldwin 
had  said,  it  was  more  poignant  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Collins.  This  was  her  first  child,  and,  though  the 
wonder  of  deliverance  can  surely  never  cease  in  a 
woman,  yet  the  first  must  be  most  wonderful  of  all. 
Surroundings,  conditions  have  less  to  do  with  the 
matter  than  you  are  given  to  suppose.  The  discordant 
cries  of  the  children,  the  wheezing  note  of  a  caged 
thrush  on  the  windowsill,  the  straw  mattress  and 
the  untidy  room  which  for  some  days  she  had  felt 
too  ill  to  set  to  rights,  counted  for  nothing  when 
she  heard  that  first  cry  and  knew  that  the  thing 
which  she  had  thought  about  for  so  long  was  no 
longer  mysterious,  but  real. 

She  was  a  thin  little  woman  with  pinched  cheeks. 
None  too  young  to  be  having  her  first  child.  The 
romance  of  it  had  been  all  the  greater  for  that.  At 
the  age  of  thirty-four  she  had  given  up  all  hope  of 
anything  wonderful  in  life  and  followed  her  business 
of  charring  with  a  dry  heart  and  thin  lips  tightly 
pressed.  And  then  one  day,  a  man  whom  the  other 
women  had  often  laughed  at  for  his  ugliness  had 
found  some  sort  of  beauty  in  her  eyes.  From  that 
moment  her  lips  were  often  parted.  She  went  some- 
times singing  to  her  work. 

But  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  find  life  too  won- 
derful, even  in  Peabody  Buildings.  After  a  six 

61 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

months'  struggle  at  the  doors  of  death  which  stand 
so  nearly  opposite  to  those  through  which  one  enters 
into  life,  her  baby  had  died.  She  counted  it  to  Fate, 
as  so  many  women  do.  She  had  been  too  old,  she 
said,  and  it  was  never  likely  that  she  could  ever  have 
another  one. 

Beside  the  bed,  then,  in  that  room  which  was 
untidy  now  because  she  did  not  care,  Dicky  found 
Mrs.  Collins  touching  the  hand  of  her  dead  baby. 

He  had  knocked  at  the  door  and  there  had  been 
no  answer.  Had  Constance  not  prepared  him  for 
this,  he  might  have  gone  away;  but  she  had  told 
him  that  if  he  got  no  reply  to  his  knocking  he  was 
to  enter. 

"I've  told  'er  you  were  comin'  round,"  she  said. 

The  door  of  the  bedroom  opposite  had  been  open, 
and,  as  he  entered,  he  saw  Mrs.  Collins  within. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  but  she  did  not  move.  In 
that  instant  Dicky  received  the  impression  that  she 
was  clinging  to  something  which  very  soon  was  to 
be  taken  from  her  and  would  not  spare  one  moment 
from  its  side.  In  that  egotism  of  his  art  he  forgot 
that  afterwards.  Wrapped  in  the  desire  to  get  his 
meaning,  the  realisation  that  she  needed  a  picture 
of  her  child  because  she  still  wanted  to  keep  it  by 
her  when  they  had  taken  it  away,  soon  escaped  him. 

Even  when  she  said,  "I  thought  almost  of  'avin' 
its  photo  taken,"  it  did  not  make  clear  to  him  the 
service  he  could  do  for  her.  He  stood  there  by 

62 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  bed  beside  her  and  looked  at  death  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life;  never  understanding  the  sorrow  of 
it,  forgetting  everything  in  that  keen  and  determined 
idea  to  catch  its  meaning. 

So  for  some  moments,  he  remained  there  in  silence 
regarding,  not  her  misery,  but  rather  the  nervous 
susceptibility  of  his  mind  to  the  finest  impression  it 
received. 

And  it  was  all  as  he  had  thought.  Death  did  not 
look  like  the  end.  The  perfect  quiet  in  the  child's 
face  as  it  lay  there  so  still  on  the  bed  proclaimed 
not  death  to  him — but  departure.  Something  that 
had  been  there  had  gone  away.  The  mysterious 
journey  was  right.  As  he  gazed  at  the  pale  cheeks 
and  the  closed  eyelids  he  believed  he  could  convey  it 
all,  and  his  fingers  were  burning  to  begin.  For  sud- 
denly he  had  seen  how  it  was  to  be  done.  It  was 
the  mother  he  must  paint  as  well  as  the  child;  for 
there,  in  the  mother's  look  of  misery,  was  the  knowl- 
edge of  those  chains  which  bound  he*;  still  in  anchor- 
age, and,  through  the  contrast  of  that  alone,  could 
he  show  in  the  peaceful  quiet  of  those  closed  eyes  the 
sense  of  freedom,  the  joyous  liberty  of  a  life  set 
free  upon  its  mysterious  journey. 

This,  then,  I  take  it,  was  the  attitude  of  Richard 
Furlong's  mind  in  those  early  days  before  he  had 
come  in  touch  with  his  later  education.  He  sought 
always  for  meanings;  and  it  was  always  the  mys- 
terious meanings  he  inclined  to  most  of  all.  Yet 

63 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

it  was  never  with  symbols  he  chose  to  illustrate  his 
mystery.  The  mystery  he  saw  himself  and  went 
straight  to  the  real  for  its  expression.  But  as  in  his 
early  days  he  used  the  medium  of  contrast  of  ma- 
terial things,  so  later,  as  his  mind  developed,  he 
portrayed  the  thing,  the  mystery  itself. 

In  his  "Romance,"  in  his  "Holiness,"  in  that  un- 
doubted masterpiece,  his  "Adventure," — the  rippling 
passage  of  a  tiny  stream  which  gives  you  all  the 
knowledge  of  the  brook,  the  river,  the  torrent,  the 
wide  and  open  sea  it  shall  become — even  in  this 
"The  Mysterious  Journey,"  which  again  in  later 
years  he  painted  once  more,  there  is  no  reliance  upon 
contrast.  For  in  the  second  painting  of  "The  Mys- 
terious Journey"  the  mother  is  left  out.  He  went 
straight  to  the  meaning  of  the  mystery  itself — it 
would  be  well  nigh  impossible  to  say  how  he 
achieved  it,  mainly,  doubtless,  it  was  through  colour. 
Form  troubled  him  but  little,  though,  indeed,  I  have 
never  heard  him  accused  of  bad  draughtsmanship. 

But  in  those  early  days,  as  when  that  afternoon  he 
stood  in  the  bedroom  of  number  nine,  F,  Peabody 
Buildings,  he  could  as  yet  only  feel  his  way  through 
the  medium  of  contrast. 

And  so  he  remained  standing  in  silence  while  these 
things  formulated  swiftly  in  his  mind. 

It  was  Mrs.  Collins  who  spoke  first. 

"Seems  just  as  if  'e  was  sleepin' — don't  'e?"  she 
said  pathetically.  "Such  a  beautiful  boy  'e  was,  too. 

64 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Well,  yer  can  see,  can't  yer?  I've  never  seen  a  baby 
with  such  blue  eyes  as  'e  'ad.  A  fair  treat  they 
was  to  look  at." 

"When  did  he  die?"  asked  Dicky. 

'  'S  morning — two  o'clock.  I  was  sittin'  by  'im — 
just  like  what  I  am  now."  The  poor  creature  had 
told  this  in  just  the  same  way  to  every  one  who  had 
come  to  see  her.  Each  time  it  refreshed  the  misery 
in  her  mind,  and  that  was  the  only  joy  she  had  left 
to  her. 

"Sittin'  'ere  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  I  was.  The 
doctor'd  said  'e  mightn't  last  out  the  night,  but  that, 
if  'e  did,  p'r'aps  there'd  be  a  chance  for  'im.  Well, 
it  'ad  just  struck  two.  'My  Gawd,'  I  says  to  my- 
self, 'it'll  be  daylight  in  another  hour,'  meaning  in 
me  mind,  yer  know,  that  the  night  'ud  be  over  then 
an'  'e'd  'ave  pulled  through.  An'  I  suppose  I  'adn't 
said  that  'bove  a  minute  afore  'is  little  eyes  open  and 
'e  starts  coughin'  and  wrigglin'.  Gawd  knows  I  did 
what  I  could — but  it  'ad  all  come  over  'im  too  quick 
— convulsions,  yer  know.  It  seemed  to  tear  'is  little 
body  till  I  could  'a'  cried  lookin'  at  'im.  And  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  when  it  was  like  as  if  'e  was  in  a 
knot,  yer  know,  'e  stopped  and  'is  little  'ead  was 
quite  still  on  the  piller.  I  thought  it  was  the  way 
they'd  passed  for  a  minute,  yer  know — and  then" — 
the  tears  began  to  drop  from  her  eyes — "I  could  see 
'e  wasn't  breathin'.  My  'usband,  'e  ran  out  for 

65 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  doctor,  of  course,  but  it  was  too  late.  Gawd, 
what  an  easy  thing  do  kill  'em,  don't  it?" 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  her  nose  on  a  corner  of 
the  sheet.  No  doubt,  when  she  said  that,  there  was 
a  swift  comparison  in  her  mind  with  the  struggle  it 
had  been  to  give  it  life.  And  then — how  easy  a 
thing  it  was  to  lose !  That  must  be  the  bitter  irony 
of  it  to  so  many. 

"I  sha'n't  be  in  the  way,  shall  I,"  she  went  on, 
"if  I  sit  'ere  while  you're  doin'  the  picture?  'E's 
going  to  be  buried  to-morrow." 

"No,  I  want  you  there,"  said  Dicky. 

"Wot,  you  ain't  goin'  to  do  me,  too?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"But  I'm  all  untidy,  and  I  don't  want  no  picture 
of  meself.  Besides,  I  can't  afford  more'n  five  shil- 
lin's,  an'  a  photograph  'ud  be  cheaper'n  that — only 
I  thought — if  you'd  put  in  a  bit  of  colour — I'd  'card 
yer  was  an  hartist  from  Miss  Baldwin — I  thought 
it  'ud  be  worth  the  extry  shillin'  or  two." 

"You  shall  have  it  for  nothing,  if  you  like,"  said 
Dicky,  "only  I  must  have  you  in  it,  too." 

And  so,  though  it  was  true  that  she  wanted  no 
picture  of  herself,  she  sat  there  in  order  to  be  near 
her  baby,  and  Dicky  set  to  work. 

In  the  fresh  heat  of  the  idea,  he  painted  quickly. 
The  canvas  was  not  a  large  one,  scarcely  more  than 
two  feet  square.  It  was  only  the  impression  he 

66 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sought  for,  paying  little  heed  to  construction  or  to 
line. 

At  intervals  as  he  worked  Mrs.  Collins  told  him 
stones  of  the  child,  living  over  its  brief  life  again 
with  each  one  she  recounted,  and  forever  wiping  her 
eyes  on  the  corner  of  the  sheet. 

In  two  hours  he  had  finished.  Every  fresh  stroke 
of  the  brush  then  was  robbing  him  of  the  impression 
he  had  caught.  With  an  exclamation  of  despair  he 
laid  his  palette  down. 

"I  daren't  do  any  more,"  said  he. 

With  the  tone  of  his  voice,  the  exclamatory  way 
in  which  he  said  it,  Mrs.  Collins,  for  the  first  time 
since  its  death,  forgot  her  baby  and  looked  up  from 
the  bed. 

"What  d'  yer  mean,  yer  daren't  do  any  more?" 
she  asked. 

"I  should  lose  it  all  if  I  did,"  he  replied.  "I  got 
it  a  bit  at  first.  I  could  feel  it  as  plainly  as  any- 
thing. Just  at  the  end  I  was  trying  to  get  the  light- 
ing— the  lighting's  ripping.  But  the  moment  I  did 
that  it  began  to  go." 

To  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Collins  this  was  some  foreign 
tongue.  She  looked  at  him  in  amazement  and  then, 
for  want  of  better  explanation,  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Let's  'ave  a  look  at  it,"  she  said. 

He  held  it  out. 

"But  yer  'aven't  shown  'is  eyes,"  she  said.  "I 
67 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

told  yer  they  was  blue — didn't  I  ?     An'  what's  that 
black  thing  spjawlin'  across  in  front  there?" 

"That's  you,"  said  Dicky. 

"My  Gawd — well,  I  don't  want  nothin'  like  that. 
You  'aven't  shown  'is  eyes." 

"But  they're  shut,"  said  Dicky  gently. 

"Gawd — don't  I  know  that?  But  I  wanted  some- 
thin'  to  remind  me  of  'im  when  'e  was  alive.  That 
was  why  I  wanted  'is  picture  taken.  Why,  it  ain't 
like  'im  at  all — not  the  way  I  used  to  see  'im,  laugh- 
in'  as  'e  did  sometimes.  You  don't  want  me  to  pay 
five  shillin's  for  that,  do  you?" 

In  Dicky's  mind  grew  a  great  sense  of  relief. 
Now  he  could  keep  it  for  himself.  Undoubtedly  he 
would  have  given  it  to  her  for  nothing,  and  with  an 
apprehensive  mind  he  offered  it  to  her  then. 

"I  don't  want  it  at  all,"  she  said.  "I'll  get  a 
photo  taken — that's  what  I'll  do.  They  can  paint 
the  eyes  in — like  Mrs.  Warner  got  done  of  'er 
'usband  when  he  died." 

"But  it  doesn't  look  as  if  he  was  dead,  does  it?" 
said  Dicky. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "It  doesn't 
look  to  me  like  nothin'.  I  wanted  to  see  'im  all  sit- 
tin'  up  like  'e  used  to.  I  thought  if  you  was  an 
hartist  yer  could  do  that.  I  suppose  it  doesn't  even 
look  as  if  'e  was  dead  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  'e 
looks  like." 

Dicky's  eyes  blazed. 

68 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Ah,  it  doesn't  seem  quite  like  death,  then,"  he 
exclaimed.  "You've  said  it — and  I  never  meant  that 
it  should." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  he  dived  his  hands  into 
his  pocket. 

"Mrs.  Collins,"  he  said,  "will  you  let  me  pay  for 
the  photograph?  I've  wasted  your  time  all  for 
nothing.  Let  me  pay  for  it." 

She  gazed  up  at  him  with  her  red  eyes. 

"It's  very  kind — I  must  say,"  said  she.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  ought  to  accept  it  from  you." 

He  took  the  tone  of  her  voice  and  pressed  the 
money  into  her  hand. 

"Please,"  said  he. 

And,  as  she  lifted  up  her  skirt  to  put  it  in  her 
pocket,  she  burst  again  into  tears. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WITH    the    severest    economy,    taking   his 
meals  in  cheap  eating  houses,  reducing 
his  breakfasts  to  the  plain  cup  of  tea 
and  piece  of  bread   and  butter,    Dicky   soon   saw 
before  him  the  moment  when  his  twelve   pounds 
would  be  gone. 

It  was  not  this  that  worried  him.  After  two 
weeks  in  London  he  had  prepared  his  mind  for  the 
prospect  of  poverty.  That  which  threatened  the 
breaking  of  his  spirit  was  when  day  by  day  he  saw 
no  further  hope  of  getting  to  the  art  schools.  For 
the  night  classes  their  fees  were  reasonable  enough 
— less  even  than  he  had  imagined — but  they  were 
utterly  beyond  the  reach  of  his  purse. 

For  one  whole  week  he  walked  the  length  and 
breadth  of  so  much  of  London  as  he  knew,  visiting 
the  shops  where  pictures  were  sold  and  offering  his 
sketches  at  any  price  they  might  be  willing  to  pay. 
They  were  unwilling  to  pay  anything.  Picture- 
framers  who  hung  small  water-colour  sketches  in 
their  windows,  marking  them  at  prices  which  Dicky 
would  have  thought  a  fortune  for  his  own,  all  re- 
garded his  work  in  the  same  light. 

70 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"You  won't  sell  these,"  one  of  them  said.  "They 
ain't  the  sort  of  stuff  people  buy.  Not  enough  defi- 
nition in  'em — too  'iggledypiggledy,  if  yer  know  what 
I  mean — too  much  fancy  about  'em.  People  like  a 
figure  or  two  or  a  few  cattle  in  their  landscapes. 
Now,  if  you  was  to  take  that  one  and  put  a  woman 
in  it  carryin'  a  pail  or  somethin',  I  might  give  you 
ten  bob  for  it.  'Twouldn't  be  worth  more." 

And  that  day,  with  a  lighter  heart,  Dicky  returned 
to  his  bedroom  over  the  oil  shop,  and  Constance 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  holding  a  slop-pail — 
the  nearest  thing  to  hand — while  Dicky  brought  in 
the  human  interest  which  was  to  make  his  sketch 
the  more  pleasing  to  the  public  taste. 

They  took  it  back  together  to  the  shop,  and  Con- 
stance came  in  with  him,  standing  by  Dicky's  side 
while  the  picture-framer  laid  it  out  on  the  counter 
and  dispassionately  regarded  it  from  every  point 
of  view. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "it's  better,  of  course.  Got  the 
'uman  note  in  it  now,  'asn't  it?  I  knew  that  was 
what  it  wanted,  but  I  don't  like  it  really,  yer  know, 
myself.  I  don't  think  I  could  sell  it,  not  even  if  I 
put  it  in  a  four-bob  frame.  I  can  see  the  merits  of 
it,  mind  yer — it's  probably  better  than  this  chap's — 
Walter  Blaney's — and  I  sell  a  good  deal  of  'is. 
But  I  don't  think  I  could  sell  it.  You've  improved 
it,  though — you  'ave  improved  it." 

With  a  bitterness  of  mind  too  great  for  words, 
71 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

too  crushing  for  retaliation,  Dicky  took  the  picture 
from  off  the  counter.  It  seemed  just  then  that  it 
was  no  good  to  try.  The  great  hammers  were 
pressing  down  very  close  upon  his  spirit.  He  asked 
himself  how  any  man  could  ever  learn  when  he  must 
fight  such  odds  as  these.  In  this  moment  he 
had  forgotten  Constance,  but  the  next  was  made 
aware  of  her. 

"I  suppose  you  think  you  know  what's  good?" 
she  exclaimed.  The  picture-f  ramer  looked  surprised, 
and,  as  Dicky  glanced  at  her,  her  eyes  were  blazing. 
It  seemed  she  knew  the  bitter  disappointment  it  had 
been,  and,  whereas  it  had  numbed  the  spirit  in 
Dicky,  it  had  stung  the  spirit  in  her. 

"You  don't  know  no  more  about  pictures  than 
what  I  do,"  she  went  on.  "Talking  all  that  blither- 
in'  nonsense  about  the  'uman  note.  If  you'd  a  little 
more  of  the  'uman  note  yourself,  you'd  pay  for  the 
picture  like  a  man  after  you'd  ordered  it.  You  told 
'im  to  put  the  woman  in  it  with  a  pail — didn't  yer? 
You  said  you'd  give  'im  ten  bob  for  it  if  'e  did.  And 
now  'e's  spoilt  'is  picture,  you  won't  buy  it." 

Dicky  took  her  arm,  but  she  shook  him  off. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  know  what 
I'm  saying,  even  if  I  ain't  talkin'  sense.  'E  said  'e'd 
pay  yer  ten  bob  an'  'e  ought  to  pay  yer  ten  bob." 

And  by  now  the  picture-framer  had  regained  his 
breath.  Surprise  and  bewilderment  had  given  way 
to  incensed  dignity.  He  was  in  his  own  shop.  He 

72 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

had  never  been  spoken  to  in  his  own  shop  like  that 
before.  With  a  certain  quickness  of  mind,  he  had 
gauged  the  difference  in  class  between  Constance  and 
Dicky,  and,  with  that  snobbishness  of  his  race,  he 
was  just  as  quick  to  use  it  in  his  defence.  His  face 
was  hot  and  his  words  tumbled  one  over  the  other, 
but  he  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"Look  'ere,  my  young  woman,"  he  began,  "I  don't 
know  what  the  likes  of  you  are  doin'  along  with  this 
gentleman — unless  you've  picked  'im  up,  'ave  yer? 
But  if  yer  don't  get  hout  of  my  shop,  I'll  damned 
well  send  the  policeman  for  yer — and  I  don't  sup- 
pose it'll  be  the  first  time  Vs  taken  yer  for  a  walk. 
Go  on !  Get  hout!  And  if  I  was  that  gentleman  I'd 
wait  till  yer'd  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  afore  I 
looked  after  yer." 

Dicky  took  her  arm. 

"Come  away,"  he  said  gently.  "You  can't  do  any 
good." 

Then  suddenly  he  caught  the  sense  of  all  the  pic- 
ture-framer  had  said  and  he  turned  back. 

"If  you  ever  have  the  good  fortune  to  meet  a 
lady,"  said  he,  "ask  her  as  a  favour  to  tell  you  the 
way  she  ought  to  be  spoken  to." 

"What — do  you  want  the  bobby,  too!"  he 
shouted. 

"Yes,"  said  Dicky  quietly,  "but  you'll  have  to 
come  over  this  side  of  your  counter  to  get  him — if 
you  grasp  what  I  mean  by  that." 

73 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  felt  his  legs  were  trembling,  just  as  he  had 
trembled  when  he  had  fought  his  battle  with  young 
Wilfrid  Leggatt.  The  very  thought  of  a  fight  dis- 
gusted him,  and  already  he  could  see  in  vivid  pic- 
tures the  ugly  scene  that  would  follow.  But  he  was 
before  a  woman  and  his  own  conscience.  However 
much  he  feared  the  consequences,  something  within 
him  prevented  him  from  turning  back. 

"Well,  are  you  coming  over,"  he  repeated,  and 
he  wondered  if  Constance  heard  the  shaking  in  his 
voice. 

"I  can  go  round  by  my  back  door  if  I  want  to," 
said  the  picture-framer. 

Dicky  laughed — to  himself  he  confessed  it  was  the 
laughter  of  relief. 

"In  that  case,"  said  he,  "I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't 
find  me  here  when  you  got  back.  Mind  you  I'm  not 
asking  to  be  run  in — only  if  you  want  to  run  me  in, 
come  over  this  side  and  do  it.  Are  you  coming 
over?" 

"Are  you  goin'  out  of  my  shop?"  the  framer  de- 
manded. 

And  again  Dicky  laughed. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "yes,  I'm  going — and  shall 
I  just  tell  you  something  before  I  go?" 

"What's  that?" 

"You've  got  a  dirty  mind — good  morning." 

Not  until  they  were  some  distance  from  the  shop 
door,  did  Dicky's  heart  begin  to  settle  down  to  a 

74 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

normal  pulse.  He  was  strongly  impressed  with  the 
thought  that  he  had  been  a  coward.  Another  man, 
he  told  himself,  would  have  taken  his  satisfaction 
without  asking  for  it.  He  felt  contempt  for  himself, 
and  the  more  he  was  conscious  of  that,  the  higher 
rose  his  admiration  of  the  girl  beside  him. 

There  had  been  a  certain  fearlessness  about  her. 
It  was  with  an  effort  that  he  had  induced  her  to  come 
away.  Moreover,  it  had  all  been  in  protection  of 
him.  Her  spirit  had  risen  to  that  outburst  because 
of  his  misfortune.  He  glanced  at  her  quickly,  stalk- 
ing along  there  by  his  side.  She  was  finer  than  he 
was.  The  comparison  which  he  inevitably  made 
brought  down  his  spirits  to  their  lowest  depths. 

He  had  no  doubt  now  that  he  was  meant  for  fail- 
ure. What  prospect  was  there  for  him  to  entertain? 
His  work  was  not  wanted.  There  was  no  hope  in 
his  mind  that  he  could  ever  begin  the  training  he 
knew  to  be  essential  to  his  success.  The  thought  of 
returning  to  his  home,  of  going  back  to  work  in  the 
Mill,  came  unsought  for  to  his  mind.  It  stirred  him 
to  a  bitter  anger.  He  would  starve,  he  would  put  an 
end  to  himself  rather  than  go  back.  Even  when  a 
vision  of  Dorothy  Leggatt  stood  before  his  thoughts, 
he  flung  it  away.  Nothing  should  bring  him  back! 
Surely  there  was  work  he  could  find  in  London.  He 
set  his  teeth,  his  nostrils  quivered  and,  looking  at 
him,  Constance  saw  the  strange  expression  in  his 
face. 

6  75 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Buck  up,  Dicky,"  she  said — the  first  time  she  had 
used  his  name — and,  without  thinking  what  he  did, 
he  linked  his  arm  in  hers  as  they  walked. 

"I  am  bucking  up,"  he  replied  bitterly.  "I'm  not 
going  to  give  in.  They'll  take  my  pictures  one 
day." 

She  pressed  his  hand.  When  she  chooses  a  man, 
a  woman  likes  him  to  fight.  It  might  have  appealed 
more  to  the  mind  of  Constance  had  Dicky  blackened 
the  picture-framer's  eyes.  There  was  never  a  fight 
in  the  streets  but  what  she  watched  it  with  a  glowing 
satisfaction.  But  she  was  none  the  less  aware  that 
he  had  a  stern  struggle  before  him  now  and  was 
keeping  up  his  head,  if  ever  so  faintly,  against  over- 
whelming odds.  All  that  it  meant  to  him  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed  she  could  ever  have  guessed.  It  was 
enough  for  her  that  she  knew  he  was  fighting, 
and,  from  the  moment  that  he  had  taken  her 
arm,  from  the  moment  that  she  had  called  him 
Dicky,  other  woman  or  no  other  woman,  he  was  her 
man. 

4  'Course  they'll  take  yer  pictures,"  she  exclaimed. 
"You'll  be  paintin'  a  poster  for  me  one  of  these  days 
for  the  music  'alls." 

Somehow  or  other,  that  showed  him  how  little 
she  understood  what  selling  a  picture  meant  to  him, 
and,  with  that,  he  realised  his  arm  was  in  hers.  He 
let  it  go,  and  all  the  goodness  in  life,  it  seemed  to 
her,  went  with  it. 

76 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"You  seem  to  think  I  want  to  make  money,"  said 
he.     "I  only  want  to  make  money  to  learn." 

She  knew  she  had  been  rebuked.     She  had  not 
understood. 

"All  right,"  she  said.     "I'm  sorry." 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOUR  weeks  more  went  by,  and  the  last  of 
Dicky's  money  lay  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
One  night  he  sat  upon  his  bed  and  counted  it. 
Six  shillings  and  a  few  odd  pence  remained.  He 
stared  at  failure,  he  stared  at  poverty,  and  knew 
them  both  as  you  know  the  sight  of  a  fate  that  has 
been  following  you  for  days. 

"Now  I've  come  to  the  end,"  he  said  aloud,  and 
yet  he  knew  it  was  not  the  end.  Even  though  the 
advertisements  he  had  answered  in  the  papers,  the 
situations  in  shops  he  had  applied  for,  had  all  been 
in  vain,  even  when  after  that  week  there  was  no 
prospect  of  a  roof  to  his  head,  or  a  meal  for  him  to 
eat,  yet  he  was  sure  it  was  not  the  end. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  knew  nothing  of  this,  and  Constance 
only  half  guessed  the  truth.  Had  they  realised  he 
was  so  closely  put  to  it,  doubtless  they  would  have 
suggested  one  of  the  numerous  agencies  where  work 
is  to  be  found.  But  he  had  never  heard  of  them. 
When  he  answered  the  notices  placed  in  a  shop  win- 
dow, whereon  all  the  requirements  he  thought  ap- 
plied to  him  were  set  forth,  he  found  that  they  re- 
garded him  with  no  little  suspicion,  and  one  and  all 

78 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  them  assured  him  curtly  or  kindly  that  he  would 
not  do. 

In  those  days  his  hair  was  growing  long.  Jagged 
ends  of  it  lapped  over  the  collar  of  his  coat.  He 
had  not  had  it  cut  since  he  came  to  London.  Being 
an  expense,  even  only  of  a  couple  of  pennies,  he  was 
quite  ready  to  let  it  go.  His  appearance  had  never 
attracted  his  attention,  not  even  in  those  days  when 
first  he  fell  in  love  with  his  Dorothy.  Now,  it  meant 
less  to  him  than  ever. 

Yet  it  was  his  appearance,  more  than  anything 
else,  that  went  against  him  in  those  efforts  to  find 
work.  At  no  moment  in  these  civilised  times  of  ours 
is  it  any  easy  thing  to  do;  and  when  a  man's  appear- 
ance gives  the  impression  of  a  character  that  is  out 
of  the  common,  few  will  be  found  to  give  him  em- 
ployment. They  were  conscious  of  Dicky's  long 
dark  hair,  the  bright  light  of  energy  in  his  eyes. 
Even  the  quick,  impulsive  note  in  his  voice  was  un- 
favourable to  his  chances.  Quickness  is  not  what 
they  need.  They  must  have  the  dull,  dogged  animal 
at  the  machine.  Dicky  was  a  fire-brand.  He  splut- 
tered and  burnt  up  and  flared.  It  was  only  when  he 
was  alone,  with  the  light  of  the  one  candle  in  his  little 
room,  that  he  burnt  low;  then  hope  and  energy  were 
faint  glimmerings  which  his  eyes  must  strain  to  see. 

On  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  his  last  week,  he 
came  into  the  parlour  where  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  hav- 
ing tea  alone  and  laid  the  money  for  his  lodging 

79 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

upon  the  table.  She  put  it  away  in  a  drawer,  where 
it  chinked  with  other  money  that  was  there. 

"  'Ave  a  cup  o'  tea,"  she  said. 

He  took  it  eagerly.  For  the  whole  of  that  week, 
the  meal  in  the  middle  of  the  day  had  been  sus- 
pended. By  tea  time,  the  sight  of  food  was  almost 
aggravating.  For  a  few  minutes  he  ate  quickly  and 
in  silence.  Before  he  had  sat  down  to  the  table,  he 
had  felt  that  there  was  an  element  of  tragedy  in  the 
fact  that  he  had  to  tell  Mrs.  Baldwin  that  this  was 
his  last  week — to  tell  her,  moreover,  without  her 
knowing  the  next  he  might  be  starving.  But  with 
four  thick  pieces  of  bread  and  butter  inside  him  and 
the  warmth  of  the  steaming  tea,  it  seemed  once  more 
that  this  was  not  going  to  be  the  end;  that  in  some 
measure  these  were  the  difficulties  he  had  anticipated 
and  they  were  there  for  his  fighting. 

He  asked  if  he  might  have  another  cup  of  tea  and 
then,  with  comparative  cheerfulness,  he  told  her. 

"Goin'1"  she  repeated.  "Where  are  yer  goin'? 
Aren't  yer  comfortable  'ere?  I'm  sure  my  place  is 
as  tidy  as  anyone's.  You  wouldn't  get  clean  sheets 
once  a  fortnight  nowhere  else.  And  it  ain't  my  fault, 
is  it,  if  yer  don't  'ave  yer  egg  or  yer  bacon  for  break- 
fast? I've  always  said  a  young  feller,  growin'  like 
you,  couldn't  do  on  bread  and  butter.  What  do  yer 
want  to  be  goin'  for,  just  as  we  was  beginnin'  to  like 
yer?  I  tell  yer  it  ain't  no  easy  job  gettin'  a  nice 
lodger.  Last  one  I  'ad  behaved  most  improper,  'e 

80 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

did — I  'ad  to  arst  'im  to  go,  and  I  know  I  was  care- 
ful enough  to  'ave  single  gentlemen  printed  on  the 
notice.  What  d'yer  want  to  go  for?" 

She  said  it  almost  petulantly.  He  knew  quite  well, 
if  he  were  to  give  her  his  reasons,  she  would  put 
aside  all  questions  of  his  paying  until  another  time. 
Yet  there  was  something  in  the  nature  of  pride  that 
prevented  him.  Good-hearted  creature  as  she  was, 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  her  sympathy;  for 
with  sympathy  it  seems  there  must  be  much  of  under- 
standing, and  of  that  he  knew  she  was  utterly  de- 
void. So  he  clung  to  his  pride,  as  most  of  us  do, 
because  it  was  his  pride  that  pleased  him.  He  felt 
then  that  he  would  far  sooner  starve  than  be  mis- 
understood; the  hot  tea,  moreover,  had  cheered  him. 
He  stood  up  from  the  table  ready  to  face  a  sea  of 
troubles. 

"It  isn't  exactly  that  I  want  to  go,"  said  he,  "be- 
cause I  have  been  very  comfortable  here.  But  I 
think  I'm  going  home." 

This  he  said  at  random.  It  was  the  first  and  most 
rational  excuse  that  came  to  his  lips. 

"What — aren't  yer  doin'  no  good  'ere?"  she  en- 
quired. '  'Asn't  Mrs.  Collins  paid  yer  for  'er 
baby?" 

"Well,  that  was  only  five  shillings,"  he  replied. 
"Besides,  I  couldn't  do  the  sort  of  thing  she  wanted. 
She  had  a  photograph  taken  of  it  instead.  Oh,  no, 

81 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

I  suppose  I'm  getting  on  all  right.  But  I  think  I 
must  go  home." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  was  a  woman  who  quickly  realised 
and  accepted  the  inevitable.  With  a  gesture  of  dep- 
recation, she  began  piling  the  tea  things  one  upon 
the  other. 

"Constance  will  be  disappointed,"  said  she,  "now 
that  she's  got  'er  turn  at  the  music  'all  and  all." 

Indeed,  this  much  was  true.  Constance  had  found 
success.  The  Middlesex  had  taken  her  on  for  a  turn 
early  in  the  evening.  She  had  given  them  tickets, 
and  Dicky  and  Mrs.  Baldwin  had  been  to  see  her. 
He  wished  afterwards  he  had  not.  Some  of  his 
father's  puritanism  was  still  in  his  blood.  In  other 
women,  there  was  no  thought  against  it  in  his  mind; 
but,  with  one  whom  he  knew  and  admired  more  than 
he  allowed  himself  to  imagine,  a  feeling  of  distaste 
had  forced  itself  upon  him.  He  had  felt  that  she 
was  making  herself  cheap,  and  it  had  induced  in  him 
an  unreasonable,  ah  uncomfortable  state  of  resent- 
ment. Self-analysis  as  yet  was  no  characteristic  of 
his.  Had  it  been  so,  he  might  have  known  that  he 
was  nearing  a  deeper  appreciation  of  Constance 
than,  with  his  love  of  Dorothy,  he  had  ever  thought 
possible. 

As  often  as  he  could,  he  had  avoided  this  state  of 
mind.  And  now,  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  was 
glad  he  was  going;  it  took  him  out  of  touch  with  a 
sense  of  disappointment  which  he  had  often  found 

82 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

irritating  to  his  thoughts.  He  had  caught  himself 
watching  her  departure  for  the  music  hall  in  the 
evening.  At  times  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  he 
was  wondering  with  what  sort  of  men  she  was  com- 
pelled to  associate  on  the  stage.  Doubtless,  when 
he  had  gone,  he  would  forget  all  this.  He  was  not 
sorry  he  was  going. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  he,  "but  don't 
think  I  haven't  been  comfortable.  I  have.  You've 
been  very  kind  to  me." 

"Then  you're  goin'  on  Saturday,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  and  went  up  to  his  room. 

He  had  come  to  regard  that  room  with  no  little 
affection  by  this.  The  picture  of  Mrs.  Collins's  baby 
was  pinned  over  his  bed;  some  of  the  sketches  he 
had  made  in  London  were  pinned  to  the  walls. 
There  was  infinitely  more  homeliness  about  the 
room  now  than  when  he  had  first  entered  it.  It 
brought  his  work  and  his  ambitions  to  his  mind 
whenever  he  was  there.  There,  for  the  last  two 
months  or  so,  he  had  thought  of  his  work,  day 
and  night.  There  he  had  elaborated  the  sketches 
he  had  done  in  London,  throwing  out  his  mind  to 
hold  the  thousand  effects  he  was  always  conscious 
of  in  the  streets. 

Even  in  that  short  time,  he  knew  he  had  im- 
proved. One  sketch,  a  wagon  load  of  flowers, 
crawling  up  Long  Acre,  in  the  mysterious  grey  of 
an  early  morning,  was  so  much  above  anything  he 

83 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

had  done  as  yet  that  the  mere  fact  of  its  having 
been  worked  upon  in  that  room  brought  the  place 
closely  in  sympathy  with  him. 

As  he  looked  at  that  sketch,  stuck  with  stamp 
paper  to  the  wall,  he  did  not  really  know  whether 
he  was  glad  to  be  going  or  not.  Ideas  changed  as 
quickly  with  him  as  this. 

He  had  called  the  picture  "Fragrance" — for 
everything  he  did,  he  named — and,  as  he  looked  at 
it  that  evening,  believing  it  to  be  good  as  judged  by 
the  standard  of  his  ability  then,  he  felt  that  surely 
he  would  be  able  to  sell  it  and  then  might  stay  on 
there  for  another  week  or  two. 

By  this  time  he  was  realising  that  he  was  sorry 
to  go.  Something  would  inevitably  be  gone  out  of 
his  life  if  he  went  away.  He  started  at  the  sound 
of  a  knock  on  the  door.  When  Constance  entered 
to  his  answer,  he  knew  that  his  heart  had  begun 
beating  to  a  quicker  pulse. 

"I  shall  miss  this  room  terribly,"  he  told  himself. 
"I  can  work  here."  This  was  what  he  forced  him- 
self to  think  as  she  stood  there  facing  him.  And  it 
was  true.  He  could  work  there.  But  it  was  the 
thought  that  she  was  present  in  the  house;  that, 
though  she  did  not  understand  his  work,  yet  under- 
stood the  struggle  he  must  face,  this  it  was  that 
stirred  and  urged  him  on. 

Each  man  as  he  works  is  subject  to  the  influence 
of  a  woman.  He  works  for  her,  or  because  of  her, 

84 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

or  in  despite  of  her.  It  is  only  the  love  of  the  work 
itself  she  cannot  hinder  or  inspire. 

When  she  closed  the  door,  Dicky  knew  well  what 
she  had  to  say.  He  stood  there  waiting  for  her  to 
speak,  half  joyful  in  his  heart  that  she  had  come, 
still  conscious  of  his  pride  that  he  would  not  be 
beholden  to  anyone. 

"Mother  says  you're  goin',"  she  began,  "goin' 
on  Saturday." 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"What  d'yer  want  to  go  for?" 

"I  must." 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed.  She  had  been  to  a 
variety  agent's  and  was  wearing  a  new  dress,  a 
dress  she  had  bought  recently  with  the  money  she 
was  earning.  She  knew  she  looked  well.  She  knew 
that,  unless  her  calculations  were  all  at  fault,  he 
was  not  going  to  go. 

"Mother  says  you're  goin'  'ome,"  she  went  on. 

The  pause  was  minute,  and  then  he  said,  "Yes." 

But  that  pause  was  long  enough  for  her.  Her 
heart  jumped  because  she  was  sure  it  was  untrue. 

"You  ain't  goin'  'ome,"  she  said  quickly.  "You're 
'ard  up — broke — you  can't  pay  any  more  for  yer 
lodgin'.  That's  what  it  is.  Yer  can't  kid  me." 

And,  if  he  was  not  going  home,  then  it  was  not 
the  other  woman,  after  all.  That  was  what  she  had 
feared  when  first  her  mother  had  told  her.  "It's 
'er,"  she  had  said  to  herself,  and  there  was  no  sense 

85 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  duty  in  her  mind.  From  the  moment  he  had 
taken  her  arm  after  leaving  the  picture-framer's, 
from  the  moment  she  had  realised  all  the  disappoint- 
ment there  lay  before  him,  every  sense  of  duty  to 
the  other  woman  had  gone  from  her  thoughts.  He 
was  her  man,  she  was  ready  to  fight  for  him  as  she 
would,  if  necessary,  have  fought  the  picture-framer. 

"You  can't  kid  me,"  she  repeated. 

He  looked  her  straightly  in  the  face,  the  last 
struggle  in  his  mind  to  keep  his  pride.  And  then, 
no  doubt  it  seemed,  what  did  pride  matter?  Wasn't 
it  better  to  have  sympathy?  He  had  failed  in  so 
far  as  that  he  could  no  longer  afford  to  stay  there. 
But  it  was  not  failure.  If  he  had  to  live  in  the 
streets,  he  knew  he  would  go  on;  he  knew  that  he 
would  win  in  the  end.  That  sketch  of  the  wagon 
of  flowers  proved  to  him  that  he  was  going  to  win. 
He  could  feel  that  he  was  getting  nearer  to  the 
understanding  of  himself.  As  he  looked  at  it  then, 
stuck  with  its  stamp  paper  to  the  wall,  he  knew  that 
it  did  not  matter  if  she  heard  the  truth.  He  was 
going  to  win. 

With  a  smile  on  his  face,  he  pulled  himself  up 
on  to  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  swung  his  legs, 
knocking  his  heels  together. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  if  I'm  not  going  home?" 

"You  ain't?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  are  'ard  up?    You  are  broke?" 
86 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes." 

He  took  the  money  out  of  his  pocket  and  counted 
it  in  his  hand. 

"At  the  end  of  this  week,"  he  said,  "I  shall  have 
seven  pence  half  penny." 

She  screwed  up  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  what  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Where  are  yer  goin'?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  don't  yer  write  'ome  for  some?  Yer  fa- 
ther 'ud  give  it  yer — wouldn't  'e?" 

"I'd  sooner  go  right  under  than  do  that,"  he  re- 
plied. 

She  got  up  from  the  bed  and  crossed  the  room, 
standing  beside  him  at  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"You're  not  goin'  under,"  she  said  quietly. 
"When  I  said  that  about  your  paintin'  a  poster  for 
me  one  day,  I  was  only  coddin'.  You're  goin'  to 
'ave  pictures  'ung  in  the  National  Gallery  one  day — 
d'yer  think  I  don't  know  that?  Good  hartists  don't 
paint  no  posters  for  early  turns  on  a  music  'all. 
Why,  I  sha'n't  be  even  good  enough  to  'ave  a  poster 
for  meself  when  everybody's  talkin'  about  you. 
D'yer  think  I  don't  know  that?" 

He  listened  to  all  she  said.  It  was  like  a  soothing 
ointment  on  an  angry  wound.  It  was  not  true,  but 
she  was  saying  it,  and  she  was  saying  it  in  that  tone 

8? 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

which  only  a  woman  knows  how  to  bring  into  her 
voice. 

"I'll  do  a  poster  for  you  one  day,"  he  said, 
"that'll  make  everyone  stop  to  look  at  it — and 
they'll  have  to  hang  it  outside  where  everyone  can 
see  it." 

"Is  that  a  promise?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — a  promise,"  he  replied. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  she. 

"What?" 

"I'll  begin  payin'  you  for  it  now.  I've  got  lots 
of  money.  They  give  me  thirty  shillings  a  week,  yer 
know,  at  the  Middlesex.  I'll  begin  payin'  yer  for 
it  now,  and  then  you  can  stop  on  'ere." 

His  first  thought  was  that  he  could  go  on  work- 
ing. It  would  be  impossible  if  he  was  living  in  the 
streets.  Then  he  tried  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  be- 
lief that  it  was  a  just  transaction.  He  would  paint 
a  poster  for  her  one  day.  He  knew  well  enough 
that  promise  would  be  kept.  But  was  it  fair  in  the 
way  of  business  to  take  the  payment  for  it  now? 

"But  if  I  get  it,"  said  he,  "I  shall  pay  it  back. 
You're  only  lending  me  the  money." 

"I  don't  care  what  I'm  doin',"  she  replied. 
"You're  goin'  to  stop  'ere — that's  all  I  want." 

And  then  from  her  purse  she  took  a  sovereign, 
and  pushed  it  into  his  hand.  It  burnt  there  and  his 
cheeks  grew  hot.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 

88 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

put  it  straight  away  into  his  pocket,  but  held  it  there 
in  a  sticky  hand. 

Where  was  his  pride  now?  He  looked  across  at 
the  picture  sticking  to  the  wall  and  knew  his  pride 
was  gone,  yet  scarcely  felt  its  going  in  the  thought 
of  the  work  he  had  to  do. 


CHAPTER   X 

IT  has  never  been  suggested,  even  by  those  who 
knew  and  liked  him  best,  that  there  was  any- 
thing heroic  in  the  life  of  Richard  Furlong. 
Men  are  invariably  selfish — artists  inevitably  so.  If 
it  can  be  said  that  they  are  generous  at  all,  it  is 
with  their  vitality,  and  in  this  Dicky  perhaps  was 
as  generous,  if  not  more  so,  as  most  of  his  type 
have  been. 

In  those  first  days  in  London,  when  he  lived  over 
the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane,  he  worked  with  a  cour- 
age and  energy  that  were  astonishing  when  one  re- 
gards the  almost  hopeless  prospect  that  spread  it- 
self before  him.  Youth  had  much  to  do  with  it;  but 
there  was  more  than  youth  beside. 

The  temptation  to  return  to  the  security  and  com- 
fort of  his  home  must  have  been  well-nigh  over- 
whelming at  times.  But  the  firm  conviction  of  his 
own  ability  never  left  him  for  long.  He  knew  that 
one  day  he  would  paint  a  poster  for  Constance,  one 
upon  which  every  eye  would  be  turned,  and  just  as 
surely  did  he  know  that  the  very  best  of  his  work 
would  eventually  earn  its  recognition.  There  were 
moments,  too,  when  he  could  regard  his  position 

90 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

from  its  humorous  points  of  view;  moments  of  good 
health  and  a  hunger  satisfied,  and  then  he  would 
laugh  at  the  comic  precariousness  of  it  all. 

Often,  when  in  that  mood,  he  wrote  home  to 
Dorothy  Leggatt,  never  telling  her  the  true  state 
of  his  affairs,  but  hinting  that  poverty  was  a  fine 
school  which  had  its  cheerful  intervals.  And  no 
doubt,  on  occasion,  he  believed  that  this  was  true; 
but  there  were  long  hours  in  that  school  when  he  sat 
wearily  learning  the  lessons  of  courage  and  experi- 
ence, and,  symbolist  and  dreamer  as  he  was,  he  must 
have  gathered  much  then  of  the  reality  of  life. 

For  another  month  he  lived  in  Drury  Lane  upon 
the  generosity  of  Constance.  She  gave  him  money 
every  week,  insisting  always  that  it  was  in  payment 
for  the  poster  he  was  one  day  to  do,  convincing  him 
against  his  better  judgment  that  it  was  honestly 
and  fairly  come  by.  Hardest  of  all  he  worked  that 
month,  finding  new  meanings  every  day  in  the  colour 
and  life  of  the  city  of  London. 

I  have  seen  the  sketches  he  did  then,  and,  though 
perhaps  they  are  poor  in  technique,  they  are  amaz- 
ing in  originality.  All  his  mind,  unhampered  by 
training,  he  threw  into  his  work  at  that  time.  And 
in  later  years,  when,  through  conventionality,  he  had 
become  a  master  of  his  medium,  that  freedom  of 
originality  was  the  lasting  feature  of  everything  he 
did. 

This  is  a  biography  of  a  man  and  his  mind,  rather 
7  91 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

than  of  his  work;  and,  even  were  I  able,  I  do  not 
feel  competent  to  describe  that  work  in  detail. 
Whenever  it  is  necessary,  I  shall  give  descriptions  of 
those  pictures  I  have  known  as  illustrations  of  his 
development.  But  it  is  through  circumstance  and  a 
power  of  will  that  a  man  becomes  what  he  is,  and 
this  is  a  chronicle  of  circumstances  alone. 

With  the  assurance  of  money  from  Constance,  he 
forgot  to  look  for  work  that  would  give  him  re- 
munerative employment,  and  so  for  much  longer  he 
might  have  continued  in  receipt  of  her  bounty,  had 
not  events  brought  him  suddenly  to  his  senses. 

One  day  in  the  early  autumn  he  took  her  to 
Kew  Gardens.  Mrs.  Baldwin  made  a  parcel  of 
sandwiches  for  them,  and  they  set  off  alone.  This 
was  one  of  those  days  when  the  precariousness  of 
existence  appealed  in  all  its  sense  of  comedy  to  the 
mind  of  Dicky.  His  spirits  were  hilarious.  In  such 
a  mood  Constance  must  have  admitted  she  liked  him 
best.  He  made  her  laugh;  his  very  boyishness  was 
infectious.  All  that  intensity  of  manner  and  seri- 
ousness of  speech  was  gone  from  him  then.  So  she 
liked  him  best  because  so  she  understood  him  best. 

In  the  woods  in  Kew  Gardens,  where  in  Spring 
the  blue-bells  mass  their  blossoms  till  it  seems  the 
very  air  beneath  the  trees  is  stained  with  blue  as 
well,  they  sat  down  to  eat  their  lunch.  The  leaves 
of  the  beeches  were  turning  to  the  first  faint  shades 
of  orange.  Now  and  again  a  gust  of  wind  dis- 

92 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

lodged  one,  to  fall  slowly,  reluctantly,  curling  and 
fluttering  to  the  ground. 

As  the  first  one  settled  on  the  grass,  Dicky  looked 
up  into  the  beeches. 

"I've  been  here  just  four  months,"  said  he,  "and 
the  apples  are  nearly  ripe  at  home.  You  should  see 
the  orchard,  sloping  down  to  the  river  there.  Ever 
seen  an  apple  tree  in  the  autumn — a  wild  crab-tree 
in  the  hedges  with  all  the  fruit  on  it,  just  in  the 
evening  when  the  light's  beginning  to  go?  The 
leaves  go  plum-coloured  and  brown,  and  yet  they're 
still  green,  and  the  little  apples  hang  on  the 
branches — all  the  colour  of  amber — like — like — oh 
— I  don't  know  what  they're  like — 1"  He  broke 
down  with  an  excited  gesture.  The  picture  was  vivid 
in  his  mind. 

It  was  the  energy,  the  vitality  in  his  voice  she 
sat  so  still  to  listen  to.  What  he  said  about  crab- 
apple  trees  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  saw  no  more 
of  green  grass  and  the  leaves  of  trees  than  what  you 
find  in  the  Embankment  Gardens,  and  she  was  con- 
tent with  this  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  Only 
to  please  his  fancy  had  she  come  with  him  to  Kew 
Gardens  that  day.  The  idea  had  been  his,  not  hers. 
But  the  sound  in  his  voice,  the  glitter  in  his  eyes, 
that  attracted  her.  His  broken  sentences,  when  a 
despairing  gesture  brought  them  abruptly  to  an 
end;  when,  with  a  toss  of  his  head,  as  though  the 
words  had  utterly  beaten  him,  he  would  say,  "Oh — 

93 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

I  don't  know!"  all  this  kept  her  eyes  set  upon  his 
face.  She  may  not  have  known  what  it  meant,  but 
she  was  conscious  of  the  power  of  feeling  behind, 
the  overflowing  vitality,  the  mind  quickly  sensitive 
even  to  the  falling  of  a  leaf. 

"One  of  these  days,"  he  went  on,  "we'll  go  right 
out  into  the  country,  you  and  I — I'll  show  you 
things — not  the  sort  of  things  that  Turner  painted, 
but  things  like  he'd  have  seen  them  if  he'd  been 
there.  There  was  a  chap  for  you!" 

"Who?"  asked  Constance. 

"Turner." 

"Who  was  'e?" 

"Turner?  He  was  a  painter.  He  could  paint 
the  sun  and  make  you  feel  as  if  your  eyes  were  going 
blind  as  you  looked  at  it." 

"That's  a  silly  sort  of  picture  to  paint,"  said  Con- 
stance. 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered she  was  there;  then  for  a  long  time  he  said 
nothing.  She  knew  she  had  said  the  wrong  thing 
again,  and  swept  her  mind  for  something  appro- 
priate to  say  which  would  make  him  forget  it.  But 
nothing  was  there.  It  seemed  foolish  to  talk  about 
the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane;  still  more  out  of  place 
did  it  appear  to  refer  to  the  Middlesex  Music  Hall. 
Yet  beyond  these  two  things  in  her  life,  there  was 
nothing — except  that  she  loved  him.  She  had 
known  that  for  some  weeks,  and,  had  it  been  any 

94 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

other  of  the  men  she  knew,  would  have  told  him  so. 
With  Dicky  it  was  different.  This  was  not  because 
of  the  other  woman,  but  partly  because  she  feared 
him. 

Nevertheless,  this  being  the  only  thought  in  her 
mind  now,  the  sandwiches  being  finished,  and  Dicky 
having  concealed  the  paper  wrapping  in  the  heart 
of  a  bramble  bush,  she  came  a  little  nearer  to  his 
side  and  said: 

"Tell  me  a  bit  more  about  the  country — where 
are  we  goin'?" 

He  looked  into  her  green  eyes  and  was  not  sus- 
pecting even  yet. 

"We'll  go  one  day  next  week,"  he  replied. 
"Where  shall  we  go?  I  don't  know  anything  about 
the  country  near  London.  Wish  we  could  go  home. 
Think  what  the  willows'ud  be  like  now  on  the  Avon 
and  the  May  trees — red  and  green.  By  Jove! 
Wouldn't  I  love  to  show  you  it  all." 

She  leant  forward  suddenly  and  caught  his  hand. 

"Let's,"  said  she.  "I've  got  the  money  for  the 
tickets — what  sport  it  'ud  be !" 

It  seemed  natural  enough  that  her  hand  was 
touching  his ;  the  thing  to  which  he  could  not  recon- 
cile his  mind  was  the  thought  of  Dorothy  and  what 
it  would  seem  to  her  if  she  saw  him  with  Constance 
in  the  very  lanes  where  they  had  walked. 

And  if  they  did  go,  which  he  knew  was  utterly 
impossible,  how  would  they  return  the  same  night, 

95 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

or  where  would  Constance  stay  if  they  came  back 
the  next  day?  So  he  played  with  the  probability  of 
the  impossible,  and,  tempted  to  ask  her  what  they 
would  do,  gave  way,  and  found  the  words  had  left 
his  lips  before  he  could  call  them  back. 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter  where  we'd  stay!"  said 
she.  Mother  'ud  never  know,  and  I  don't  suppose 
she'd  mind  if  she  did.  Mother  likes  you,  yer 
know." 

So  then  he  got  an  insight  into  the  lawlessness  of 
her  morality,  and,  before  he  realised  it,  found  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  her  warm  lips  murmuring 
to  his  own. 

"Do  take  me !"  she  whispered.  "I  want  to  see  all 
the  places  you  talk  about — I  shall  understand  'em 
better  then.  I've  never  known  much  about  the 
country,  livin'  in  London — see.  We  could  go  on  a 
Sunday  and  come  back  on  a  Monday  so  as  I'd  be 
in  time  for  me  turn  at  the  Middlesex.  You  will 
take  me — won't  you?" 

Dicky  listened  to  the  hot  torrent  of  her  words, 
and  knew  then  the  bitter  impossibility  of  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  stood.  He  was  taking  money  from 
her;  indeed,  he  was  living  on  her  money  alone. 
Over  and  over  again  he  had  deceived  himself  into 
the  belief  that  she  was  helping  him  because  of  his 
work.  Now  he  knew  the  truth.  It  was  because  she 
loved  him,  and  he  had  nothing  to  give  in  return. 

With  all  unconsciousness,  she  was  presenting  her 
96 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

account,  and  he  had  nothing  with  which  to  meet  it. 
His  cheeks  burnt  hot,  and  even  the  passion  which 
her  kisses  roused  seemed  shameful  to  his  con- 
science then.  He  knew  he  was  a  debtor,  dishon- 
oured in  his  own  eyes,  perhaps  dishonoured  in  hers 
as  well.  With  the  gentleness  of  contrition  he  took 
her  arms  away.  He  wanted  to  say  that  he  was 
sorry,  but  the  words  sounded  caddish  even  in  their 
silent  utterance  in  his  mind.  He  said  nothing. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  sat  and  looked  at  him, 
weighing  the  situation  in  her  mind,  struggling 
against  the  pulse  that  was  beating  in  her  brain  to 
know  all  that  his  silence  meant. 

"Yer  don't  love  me?"  she  said  at  last. 

For  an  instant  the  thought  that  silence  would  an- 
swer for  him  prompted  him  not  to  speak.  Then 
he  felt  the  cowardice  of  that  and  said,  "No,"  with 
eyes  that  were  honest  to  hers. 

She  stood  up  to  her  feet,  smoothed  out  her  skirt, 
and  straightened  her  hat. 

"Then  let's  come  out  of  this  damned  place,"  said 
she,  and  Dicky  followed  her,  feeling  that  the  world 
was  crushing  him  on  every  side  to  nothingness. 


CHAPTER   XI 

«. 

PRIDE  and  self-respect,  these  are  the  serious 
matters  when  your  twenty  years  are  coming 
just  in  sight.  For  all  the  occasional  hilar- 
ity of  his  spirits,  Dicky  in  these  days  was  sadly 
wanting  in  a  sense  of  humour.  Nothing  indeed  was 
assured  for  him;  everything  was  a  gigantic  specula- 
tion. Any  day  he  might  be  compelled  to  admit  de- 
feat and  appeal  to  the  generosity  of  his  father  to 
take  him  back  to  the  Mill.  It  is  scarcely  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  he  regarded  life  with  intensity,  beset 
with  such  uncertainty  of  mind. 

As  he  returned  from  Kew  Gardens  that  evening 
with  Constance,  even  late  into  that  night,  he  fretted 
his  soul  to  a  fine  depression. 

Philosophy  is  the  application  of  a  sense  of  hu- 
mour to  the  disproportionate  seriousness  of  life.  At 
the  age  of  nineteen,  Dicky  had  none  of  it.  He  criti- 
cised the  relations  between  himself  and  Constance 
as  though  it  were  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
world  that  a  man  had  ever  taken  money  from  a 
woman.  He  imagined  no  condemnation  too  strong 
for  himself,  and,  the  next  morning,  gathering  to- 
gether a  dozen  or  so  of  the  sketches  he  had  made 

98 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  London,  he  set  off  eager  and  determined  to  find 
a  purchaser  who  would  enable  him  to  discharge  his 
debt  to  Constance. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  been 
walking  the  whole  day  from  one  place  to  another 
without  success,  that  he  turned  into  the  Waterloo 
Bridge  Road.  He  had  had  no  food  since  breakfast. 
In  their  trip  the  day  before  to  Kew  Gardens  he  had 
spent  the  last  of  the  money  that  Constance  had 
given  him,  and,  after  what  had  happened,  was  pre- 
pared to  suffer  any  discomfort  rather  than  ask  her 
for  more.  The  discomfort  he  was  suffering  then. 
He  felt  tired  from  hunger,  but  forgot  all  thoughts 
of  it  when  he  came  to  a  shop  in  whose  windows  he 
saw  water  colours  displayed  for  sale,  at  such  prices 
as  gave  him  to  understand  that  this  was  not  a  pic- 
ture dealer  in  the  recognised  sense  of  the  word.  His 
hopes  rose  as  they  had  risen  before.  He  had  come 
to  know  by  now  that  the  real  picture  dealer  would 
have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  him.  This  was 
the  class  of  man  he  wanted,  and,  seeing  a  customer 
already  within,  he  waited  outside  for  the  best  part 
of  half  an  hour  until  the  shop  was  empty,  and  he 
found  the  owner  by  himself. 

They  called  themselves  the  Waterloo  Picture 
Framing  Company.  This  was  printed  over  the  shop 
front;  but  Mr.  Nibbs,  who  ran  the  business,  had 
long  ago  found  that  the  making  of  frames  was  not 
a  paying  proposition  in  itself.  He  bought  the  Christ- 

99 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

mas  numbers  of  the  illustrated  magazines  and  every 
month  The  Studio,  framing  the  coloured  pictures 
they  contained  in  neat  little  oak  frames  and  putting 
them  in  the  forefront  of  his  window  marked  at 
catchy  prices.  These  were  just  the  kind  of  things 
to  arrest  the  eye  of  the  gentleman  from  the  suburbs 
on  the  way  down  to  Waterloo  station  to  catch  his 
train  to  Wimbledon  and  the  south-west.  With  the 
coloured  print  of  Grieffenhagen's  "Idyll"  he  had  had 
continuous  success.  A  framed  copy  of  it  always 
hung  there  conspicuously. 

But  the  trade  in  pictures,  reproductions  or  origi- 
nals, was  not  enough  to  pay  his  rent.  He  took  to 
selling  old  prints.  In  his  younger  days  he  had 
worked  at  a  print-seller's  up  West,  touching  up  the 
prints  that  were  damaged,  restoring  them  to  a  sale- 
able condition.  He  knew  the  value  of  Bartolozzis; 
had  seen  the  prices  fetched  by  Borrow's  tail  pieces. 
What  is  more,  he  had  a  love  for  these  old  engrav- 
ings. "They  did  things  well  in  those  days,"  he  said, 
and  he  had  a  righteous  contempt  for  the  modern 
half-tone  reproductions  from  photographs. 

He  knew  where  old  prints  were  to  be  found,  and 
he  bought  them.  Seeing  them  in  his  windows  for 
sale,  strange  people  from  strange  places  brought 
others  for  him  to  buy.  He  seldom  sent  them  away 
without  purchase,  taking  them  just  as  they  were  in 
their  old  gold  frames  and  placing  them  in  his  win- 
dows or  hanging  them  on  the  walls  of  his  shop. 

100 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

When  they  needed  restoration,  he  took  them  home 
with  him  to  where  he  lived,  in  Greenwich,  and 
worked  on  them  there  far  into  the  night.  Those 
that  required  touching  up,  he  was  always  the  more 
ready  to  buy.  Their  restoration  gave  him  occupa- 
tion in  the  evenings.  Without  work,  he  was  one 
of  those  men  who  is  lost.  Energy  and  diligence, 
they  glittered  in  his  eyes. 

After  a  time  these  strange  people  with  prints  to 
sell — the  people  who  haunt  the  pawn  shops,  are 
down-at-heel  and  ill-equipped — brought  him  other 
things,  because  they  had  heard  that  old  things  had  a 
market  value.  When  he  knew  they  were  in  want, 
Mr.  Nibbs  never  sent  them  away  without  effecting 
some  transaction.  He  knew  nothing  about  china 
or  about  brass.  Sheffield  plate  was  only  a  name  to 
him,  but  he  bought  everything  that  came  in  and  put 
it  in  his  window,  labelling  it  with  whatever  descrip- 
tion had  been  given  him  at  the  time  of  purchase. 

Amongst  all  this  nondescript  collection  of  rub- 
bish which  at  last  he  acquired  you  would  find  an 
odd  piece  of  value  here  and  there — a  good  old 
pair  of  brass  candlesticks,  a  piece  of  china — you 
might  never  know.  It  was  always  worth  your 
while  to  pay  him  a  visit.  In  all  that  conglomerated 
mass  of  china  and  brass,  electroplate  and  frames 
and  pictures,  with  which  he  crowded  his  shop,  you 
might  discover  something  to  your  fancy.  They 
were  all  cheap.  He  bought  for  little  from  those 

101 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

who  had  little,  and  he  sold  for  little  often  doubtless 
to  those  who  had  much.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
wily  tradesman  about  him.  He  knew  too  little  about 
the  things  he  sold.  If  an  article  was  plated  with 
silver  upon  copper,  he  called  it  old  Sheffield  plate, 
for  as  such  it  had  been  sold  to  him. 

He  would  point  to  the  places  where  the  copper 
had  worn  through  and  he  would  say: 

"You  see — copper,  copper  all  through.  They 
don't  plate  silver  on  that  sort  of  stuff  now." 

And  he  would  sell  it  for  such  a  price  as,  if  it  had 
been  genuine  Sheffield  plate,  would  have  possessed 
you  of  a  bargain  to  make  your  heart  glad.  Some- 
times, moreover,  it  was  genuine,  but  he  never  knew 
the  difference.  The  little  tricks  of  the  business,  the 
silver  turn-over,  the  inset  shield  of  silver,  he  had 
never  heard  of  these. 

There  was  the  element  of  philanthropy,  too,  in 
all  the  purchases  he  made.  They  pitched  him  sor- 
rowful tales,  those  strange  people  who  came  with 
their  strange  wares  into  his  shop.  Through  the 
old  horn  spectacles  that  he  balanced  on  his  button 
of  a  nose,  his  eyes  would  twinkle  with  sympathy 
as  he  listened.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  know 
the  world  well  enough;  he  had  been  learning  of  it 
for  fifty  years,  yet  he  still  believed  all  he  heard. 
Many  a  thing  he  bought  with  but  the  faintest  expec- 
tation of  selling  again,  because  the  owner  had  hinted 
of  hunger,  of  children  whose  mouths  must  be  filled. 

102 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Once,  under  such  circumstances  as  these,  he  had 
bought  an  old  milk  jug  that  looked  like  pewter.  It 
was  bent  and  dented  and  disfigured.  He  had  never 
hoped  to  see  his  money  back  on  it  again,  but  the 
woman  who  had  brought  it  was  near  the  birth  of 
her  child.  She  had  just  said,  "Can  yer  give  me 
two  bob  for  this?"  It  had  been  enough  for  him, 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  look  in  her  face.  With- 
out a  word  he  had  put  down  the  two  shillings  on 
the  counter. 

Then,  because  it  was  new  and  there  was  room 
for  it,  he  had  put  it  in  the  window,  and  one  day  a 
dealer  he  knew  came  into  the  shop,  asking  to  see  it. 

When  he  had  examined  it  thoroughly  the  dealer 
looked  up. 

"What  do  you  want  for  it?"  he  asked. 

"What'll  yer  give?"  Mr.  Nibbs  enquired  warily. 

"Give  yer  fifteen  bob." 

"It's  silver,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs  at  a  venture.  It 
must  have  been  silver  or  he  would  never  have  of- 
fered such  a  price. 

"Yes,  but  very  knocked  about,"  the  dealer  re- 
plied. "I'll  say  a  quid." 

"Two  pounds,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"Right,"  said  the  dealer,  and  Mr.  Nibbs  knew 
that  he  had  been  done,  but  he  did  not  mind  that. 
It  had  proved  to  him  the  reward  of  kindness.  On 
the  strength  of  that  piece  of  good  fortune,  he  never 
turned  away  anyone  who  was  in  want.  The  good 

103 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

fortune  never  occurred  again,  yet  he  spoke  of  that 
incident  from  one  year  to  another,  as  though  such 
things  were  happening  every  day.  It  became  the 
cornerstone  of  his  philosophy,  to  give  people  a 
hand  whenever  he  could. 

"Live  and  let  live,"  he  would  say.  "Everybody's 
as  much  right  to  existence  as  what  I  'ave." 

And  he  had  said  this  so  frequently  that  in  time 
he  came  to  regard  it  as  a  saying  of  his  own.  From 
the  corner  where  she  sat  in  the  shop,  forever  read- 
ing novelettes  until  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  out 
on  an  errand,  his  wife  would  nod  her  head  in  ap- 
proval of  Mr.  Nibbs'  philosophy.  She  agreed  with 
everything  he  said — with  everything  he  did. 

It  was  this  little  man,  then,  with  his  love  of  prints 
and  his  generous  philosophy,  who  made  the  first 
turning  point  in  the  beginning  of  Dicky  Furlong's 
life  in  London.  This  is  the  strangeness,  the  mys- 
tery in  this  eternal  shuffling  of  the  cards.  You 
never  know  which  will  fall  together.  Even  the 
hand  that  shuffles  cannot  decree.  That  is  the  joy  of 
it.  Fate  is  outside  the  law.  Not  even  the  dis- 
covery of  a  fourth  dimension  can  ever  reach  its 
limitations.  Chance  is  infinite. 

As  soon  as  the  customer  had  come  out  of  the 
shop,  Dicky  went  in.  Without  curiosity,  Mrs. 
Nibbs  looked  up  from  her  corner  over  her  novel- 
ette. Over  his  round  horn  spectacles,  the  round 
eyes  of  Mr.  Nibbs  glanced  up  as  well.  Before 

104 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  had  spoken,  he  knew  the  object  of  his  visit. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  guess.  The  slouch  hat,  the 
long  hair,  they  proclaimed  him.  And,  if  he  thought 
about  it  at  all,  Dicky  preferred  that  they  should. 
He  was  quite  agreeable  to  being  thought  an  artist, 
so  long  as  it  did  not  imply  effeminacy.  There  was 
only  that  carelessness  of  dress,  the  suggestion  of 
looseness  about  everything  he  wore  which  painters 
seem  almost  to  find  necessary  to  freedom  in  their 
work. 

"Pictures?"  asked  Mr.  Nibbs. 

Dicky  laid  his  portfolio  down  on  the  counter. 

"You  sell  pictures,  don't  you?"  said  he. 

The  little  man  nodded. 

"I've  got  some  of  Thomas  Parker's  in  the  win- 
dow. I  sell  a  lot  of  his — well — a  lot?  I  sell  a 
few." 

"I  want  you  to  have  a  look  at  these,"  said  Dicky. 
"They're  all  done  round  about  different  parts  of 
London."  He  began  to  take  them  out,  holding 
them  up  one  after  another  and  saying,  "That's 
down  the  Strand — that's  Westminster  Bridge — 
that's  a  bit  of  Covent  Garden  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning — just  when  they're  opening  the  market," 
and  so  on,  describing  them  all. 

Mr.  Nibbs  settled  his  horn  spectacles  to  his  com- 
fort and  looked  at  them  in  silence.  He  was  not 
sure  what  he  thought  of  them.  In  fact,  he  was 
very  uncertain.  The  work  was  strange  to  him. 

105 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

With  all  of  Thomas  Parker's,  you  could  see  what 
they  were.  The  pictures  of  Venice,  though  he  knew 
Thomas  Parker  had  never  been  out  of  Lambeth  in 
his  life,  they  were  all  very  accurate  and  like  the 
places  they  represented.  Gentlemen  on  their  way 
to  catch  the  train  to  Croydon,  looking  in  to  see  him 
in  a  spare  moment,  had  often  said  how  like  the 
place  they  were.  Therefore,  Mr.  Parker  continued 
in  Lambeth  to  paint  in  Venice. 

But  these  pictures  of  London,  which  he  knew  so 
well,  were  not  quite  recognisable  to  Mr.  Nibbs.  He 
was  not  aware  that  he  had  ever  seen  Westminster 
Bridge  look  quite  like  that;  yet,  as  he  stared  at  it, 
there  was  some  thought  stirring  in  his  mind  that 
you  might  see  Westminster  Bridge  in  such  a  way 
if  you  had  the  mind  for  it. 

There  was  something  about  Dicky  himself,  too, 
which  made  him  feel  that  the  pictures  might  be 
good.  Although  he  believed  the  work  of  Thomas 
Parker  to  be  excellent,  Thomas  Parker  himself 
never  gave  him  the  impression  that  it  was.  But 
Dicky,  even  in  silence,  forced  his  personality  upon 
the  little  man.  When  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
say  that  he  would  not  buy  any  that  day  he  felt  an 
uncomfortable  sensation  that  he  might  be  refusing 
a  good  thing  and  fervently  wished  that  he  did  know 
more  about  painting.  The  circumstance  which  de- 
cided his  refusal  was  that  he  had  bought  an  old 
shagreen  spectacle  case  that  morning  with  old 

106 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Georgian  spectacles  inside.  This  was  partly  be- 
cause he  liked  shagreen,  partly  because  he  liked  old 
spectacles.  He  always  wore  old  ones  himself.  Most 
of  all,  perhaps,  he  had  bought  them  because  the 
man  who  had  brought  them  in  was  blind  of  one 
eye  and  could  not  get  any  work  to  do. 

"Somethin'  pathetic  in  a  man  blind  in  one  eye 
comin'  to  sell  a  pair  o'  spectacles,"  he  had  said  to 
his  wife  when  the  man  had  gone  out  with  four 
shillings  in  his  pocket. 

"Yer  won't  be  able  to  sell  them,"  she  had  replied. 

"No,  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  sell  'em,"  said  he,  "but 
I'll  put  'em  in  the  window.  'E's  glad  of  the  money 
— any'ow." 

So,  having  made  one  philanthropic  purchase  that 
morning,  he  was  not  eagerly  disposed  to  make  an- 
other. Moreover,  there  was  nothing  about  him  to 
suggest  that  Dicky  was  hungry.  He  looked  a 
healthy  boy.  Still,  he  did  not  like  refusing  them, 
and,  before  a  final  determination,  he  took  one  up 
and  showed  it  to  Emily,  his  wife. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Westminster  Bridge." 

"Is  it?"  she  replied.  Her  eyes  twinkled  up  at 
him  because  she  thought  it  funny.  There  was  noth- 
ing unkind  or  malicious  in  her  mind.  After  that 
brief  criticism,  she  went  on  with  her  novelette. 

Mr.  Nibbs  came  back  to  the  counter. 

"Afraid — I  can't  buy  any  to-day,"  said  he.  He 
8  107 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

hardly  liked  to  look  in  Dicky's  face  as  he  said  it. 
"What  are  you  asking  for  them?" 

"Whatever  I  can  get,"  said  Dicky,  and  all  the 
day  of  trudging  and  disappointment  that  had  gone 
before  came  back  in  a  moment,  crushing  hope  and 
casting  all  its  weight  upon  his  spirits. 

There  must  have  been  this  in  his  voice.  His 
moods  were  always  plain  to  anyone  who  chose  to 
read  them.  Mr.  Nibbs  picked  up  the  painting  of 
the  wagon  load  of  flowers,  trundling  between  the 
dirty  houses  of  Long  Acre.  He  knew  he  was  going 
to  buy  a  picture  then.  He  knew  he  could  not  help 
himself.  Live  and  let  live  was  running  quickly 
through  his  mind,  because  in  Dicky's  voice  he  had 
heard  the  patient  note  of  disappointment. 

"I'll  give  you  ten  shillings  for  this  one,"  he  said. 
Emily  looked  up  from  her  reading,  but  did  not 
speak. 

For  the  first  moment  Dicky  was  elated.  Disap- 
pointment followed  then  as  quickly  in  his  mind.  The 
little  man  had  chosen  the  best  of  them  all,  but  he 
had  chosen  it  by  accident  more  than  intent.  He 
might  just  as  well  have  laid  his  hand  upon  another. 
Dicky  had  realised  in  two  minutes  that  his  powers 
of  appreciation  were  inconsiderable.  Yet  he  had 
selected  the  very  painting  in  which  lay  Dicky's  pride. 
There  may  have  been  the  element  of  chance  in  the 
work  of  it.  With  water-colour  more  than  any  other 
medium,  there  is  a  day  when  the  gods  are  in  your 

108 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

fingers.  It  had  been  his  day  when  he  had  done 
this.  He  had  put  it  in  his  portfolio  because  he 
wanted  to  show  it,  but  to  sell  it  for  ten  shillings, 
even  though  pride  was  at  his  elbow  urging  him  to 
get  money  at  any  cost,  this  was  more  than  he  could 
bring  himself  to  do.  He  took  it  up  from  the  coun- 
ter and  looked  at  it  with  a  feeling  of  pleasure  he 
had  no  thought  to  conceal. 

"I  can't  sell  this  one,"  he  said  at  last.  "Any  of 
the  others — the  Westminster  Bridge,  the  ware- 
houses at  Blackfriars — here,  this  one — Lambeth 
side — any  of  those  you  can  have  for  ten  shillings 
each." 

"Thought  you  wanted  to  sell,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"So  I  do— badly." 

"Got  any  money?" 

Emily  was  listening  now  to  every  word. 

"No." 

"Then  why  don't  you  want  to  sell  this  one?" 

"Because  it's  the  best  thing  I've  done  yet.  I'm 
going  to  keep  it  myself." 

Mr.  Nibbs  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  his  eyes 
twinkled.  He  looked  at  Emily,  he  looked  at  the 
picture,  he  looked  back  at  Dicky  once  more,  his  eyes 
dancing  with  amusement  all  the  time.  Then  he  put 
his  hands  inside  the  bib  of  his  white  apron  and  he 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Ton  my  soul!"  he  said.  "  Ton  my  soul!"  He 
gurgled  with  laughter  again  and  swayed  about  with 

109 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

his  merriment  behind  the  counter.  "Won't  sell  me 
the  picture  I  want  because  he  thinks  it's  too  good. 
I  can  have  the  bad  'uns  for  ten  bob  a  piece!" 

"You  didn't  know  which  was  good  and  which  was 
bad  until  I  told  you,"  said  Dicky.  "Besides,  they're 
none  of  them  bad — none  of  them  as  bad  as  your 
man  Parker's." 

Mr.  Nibbs  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  in  a  moment 
the  expression  of  his  face  changed  to  seriousness. 
He  leant  forward  across  the  counter  and,  to  Dicky's 
amazement,  he  said: 

"Ain't  he  any  good,  then?" 

From  that  moment  began  Dicky's  friendship  with 
the  little  old  print-seller  in  the  Waterloo  Bridge 
Road.  There  was  something  so  unexpected,  so 
ingenuous  in  his  question  that  Dicky  knew  he  was 
talking  to  one  man  in  a  thousand. 

"Has  he  ever  been  to  Venice?"  he  asked. 

"How  did  you  know?"  replied  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"Well,  Venice  isn't  like  that,"  said  Dicky. 

"You've  been  there?"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"No,"  said  Dicky. 

For  the  second  time  the  little  man  threw  out  his 
stomach,  threw  back  his  head  and  chuckled  with 
laughter. 

"Emily,"  he  said,  "how  about  tea?" 

"Ready  whenever  you  are,"  she  replied. 

"  'Ave  a  cup  with  us,  Mr. ?" 

"Furlong,"  said  Dicky, 
no 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Then  'ave  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Furlong?" 
The  feeling  of  hunger  came  back  to  him  at  the 
sound  of  it.    He  could  only  nod  his  head.    When  it 
occurred  to  him  a  moment  later,  he  said,  "Thanks." 


CHAPTER   XII 

MRS.  NIBBS  occupied  a  chair,  while  her 
husband  and  Dicky  sat  on  boxes  at  the 
back  of  the  shop.  There  they  had  tea. 
Out  of  the  corners  of  his  beady  eyes  the  little  print- 
seller  noted  the  eagerness  with  which  Dicky  ate  the 
plain,  thick  pieces  of  bread  and  butter.  He  saw 
the  look  of  genuine  satisfaction  on  Dicky's  face 
with  each  bite  that  he  took.  It  was  a  look  he  recog- 
nised; a  look  he  thoroughly  understood.  He  had 
done  right  in  offering  ten  bob  for  a  picture,  which- 
ever one  he  was  to  get.  But  then  it  was  infallibly 
right,  to  live  and  let  live ;  he  had  never  known  that 
principle  to  fail. 

There  was,  moreover,  quite  the  human  note  in 
his  philosophy.  He  was  not  charitable  without  curi- 
osity. He  wanted  to  know  all  about  the  people  he 
helped,  and  he  never  forgot  the  numberless  stories 
that  had  been  told  him.  To  recount  them  over  and 
over  again  brought  him  an  unfailing  sense  of  grati- 
fication. This  was  the  reward  he  took.  If  it  be 
looked  into,  it  will  be  seen  how  the  most  generous 
amongst  us  take  our  rewards  in  some  one  kind  or 
another.  This  was  the  way  Mr.  Nibbs  took  his. 

112 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

They  had  not  been  at  tea  for  five  minutes  before  he 
was  uncomfortable  with  curiosity,  and,  in  searching 
for  the  first  question  he  might  put,  kept  shifting  his 
position  on  the  box  where  he  was  sitting. 

He  had  an  uneasy  sensation  in  his  mind  that 
Dicky,  more  readily  than  most  of  the  people  in 
whom  he  had  been  interested,  would  recognise  the 
curiosity  in  his  questions,  and,  being  the  most  pal- 
pable weakness  in  his  character,  curiosity  was  a  fail- 
ing he  most  vigorously  denied.  It  was  the  one  ac- 
cusation which  made  him  lose  his  temper  with  Emily, 
wherefore  it  was  a  weapon  she  only  used  with  the 
utmost  discretion. 

Having  tried  various  suppositions  in  his  mind 
about  Dicky  and  finding  them  all  unsatisfactory,  he 
at  last  threw  out  the  question  he  had  been  burning 
to  ask. 

"How  is  it  you  come  to  be  so  hard  up?"  he  en- 
quired. "What  I  mean,  if  you  think  your  pictures 
are  better  than  Thomas  Parker's,  why  don't  you 
sell  'em?  He  makes  a  livin'  out  of  'is.  Bit  of  the 
hand  to  mouth  about  it,  but  he  does  sell,  there's  no 
doubt  of  that.  I  had  a  gentleman  in  here  the  other 
day,  and  he  said  he  considered  Parker  did  the  pret- 
tiest pictures  of  Venice  he'd  ever  seen,  and  he's  been 
to  Venice  himself.  Well,  I  prefer  Turner  myself. 
I  don't  think  he  always  gets  the  place  quite  right, 
but  I  know  he's  good,  because  everybody  says  so. 
I  asked  this  gentleman  if  he  didn't  like  Turner  bet- 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ter,  but  he'd  never  seen  any  of  Turner's — at  least, 
not  to  his  recollection.  Still,  if  you  think  your 
sketches  are  better  than  Thomas  Parker's,  I  can't 
make  out  why  you  seem  to  be  so  hard  up.  Haven't 
you  got  any  money  at  all?" 

There  was  the  note  of  curiosity.  He  could  not 
keep  it  out  of  his  voice.  So  often  had  she  heard  it 
that  Emily  took  no  notice  of  it  then.  She  looked 
up,  curious  herself  to  hear  what  the  answer  would 
be.  But  to  Dicky  it  was  plain  enough.  Yet  he 
felt  no  resentment  at  the  sound  of  it.  He  had  not 
forgotten  that  first  impression  of  Mr.  Nibbs — one 
man  in  a  thousand — for,  besides  the  note  of  curi- 
osity, there  was  sympathy,  too.  He  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  who  made  you  feel  proud.  Dicky  had 
little  hesitation  in  saying  that  he  had  not  got  a 
penny  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Nibbs  looked  at  Emily;  with  expectation  she 
looked  back  at  him. 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  said  he,  as 
though  it  were  a  family  matter  and  must  be  seen  to 
at  once.  And  this  was  just  what  she  had  expected 
him  to  say.  She  had  wondered  what  they  were 
going  to  do  herself.  For  there  was  this  boy — he 
was  only  a  boy — and  she,  too,  had  seen  with  what 
eagerness  he  had  eaten  that  bread  and  butter. 
Something  had  to  be  done.  With  implicit  confidence 
she  left  it  to  Mr.  Nibbs  to  say  what  it  was  to  be. 

At  last,  by  further  questioning  that  was  none 
114 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

too  adroit,  they  learnt  the  whole  story  of  Dicky's 
ambitions.  Somehow  the  round,  beady  eyes  of  Mr. 
Nibbs  and  Emily's  half-opened  mouth  as  she  lis- 
tened encouraged  in  him  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
hopes.  He  spoke  of  his  work  as  he  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  speaking  of  it  to  anyone  since  he 
had  been  in  London.  He  had  taken  his  hat  off 
while  he  had  tea,  and,  as  he  talked,  held  up  at  every 
moment  for  words  with  which  to  express  himself, 
he  ran  his  fingers  wildly  through  his  hair.  As  he 
watched  him,  Mr.  Nibbs  knew  there  was  more  of 
the  artist  in  him  than  in  Thomas  Parker. 

Now,  if  curiosity  was  one  fault  in  the  character 
of  the  little  print-seller,  there  was  yet  another.  He 
had  a  weakness  for  making  discoveries.  It  was  he 
who  had  discovered  Thomas  Parker,  and,  as  may 
be  supposed,  the  discovery  was  not  of  much  value 
to  anyone.  Mr.  Nibbs'  was  one  of  those  tempera- 
ments whose  appreciations  of  art  are  unfairly  handi- 
capped by  a  total  ignorance  of  what  art  really  may 
be.  He  believed  Thomas  Parker  to  be  good  be- 
cause he  sold.  He  believed  Turner  to  be  a  better 
painter  because  he  had  heard  of  the  prices  that  a 
Turner  would  fetch.  But  it  must  not  be  supposed 
that  his  appreciation  was  a  question  of  finance  alone. 
The  opinions  of  others  weighed  heavily  with  him, 
too,  and  it  so  happened  that  he  had  heard  more 
praise  of  Turner  than  of  any  other  artist  whatso- 
ever. Therefore,  Turner  was  his  standard  of  com- 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

parison  for  every  artist  who  was  brought  to  his  no- 
tice. He  had,  in  fact,  done  nearly  as  well  with 
framed  coloured  prints  of  "The  Fighting  Temer- 
aire"  as  he  had  with  Greiffenhagen's  "Idyll" ;  yet  he 
had  never  seen  an  original  of  Turner's  in  his  life. 

However,  if  Ruskin  had  made  the  discovery  of 
the  greatest  of  all  painters,  he  at  least  had  discov- 
ered Thomas  Parker.  Quite  seriously  and  with  a 
twinkle  of  pride  in  his  eyes,  he  would  tell  you  this 
himself.  And  now  he  was  on  the  point  of  making 
another  discovery  that  bid  fair  to  being  of  greater 
importance  than  any  he  had  claimed  before.  As 
with  many  a  man  who  is  deficient  in  education, 
his  reasoning  in  all  this  matter  was  very  much  that 
of  a  woman's.  His  instincts  were  acute.  They 
brought  him  where  a  little  education  and  a  little 
logic  could  never  have  led  him. 

In  this  discovery,  which  I  know  in  years  after- 
wards he  continued  proudly  to  lay  claim  to,  his  first 
instincts  were  towards  Dicky's  personality.  Had 
Dicky  told  him  that  Turner  was  no  good,  he  might 
almost  have  believed  him.  But  when  he  spoke  of 
the  great  man  with  a  light  of  worship  in  his  eyes, 
then  Mr.  Nibbs  knew  that  Dicky  was  on  the  right 
track.  He  felt  it  proper,  too,  that  this  boy,  with 
all  his  enthusiasm,  should  be  hungry  and  without 
a  penny  in  his  pocket.  He  could  see  in  years  to 
come  how  he  would  be  able  to  say  that  he  had 
known  young  Furlong  when  he  was  penniless  on 

116 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  streets  of  London.  And  this  indeed  was  often 
what  he  did  say. 

Then,  lastly,  there  was  all  the  story  before  him 
of  how  Dicky  had  run  away  from  the  Mill;  how, 
with  those  few  pounds  in  his  pocket,  he  had  come 
to  London  without  a  soul  to  befriend  him.  All  this 
convinced  him  that  he  was  right.  One  thing  only 
was  there  to  disturb  the  firm  conviction  of  his  mind; 
it  was  that  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to  a  great 
appreciation  of  Dicky's  sketches.  Even  Emily  had 
not  recognised  the  picture  of  Westminster  Bridge, 
and  she  was  generally  sharp  enough  at  that  sort  of 
thing.  However,  Dicky  himself  believed  in  them; 
believed  in  them  to  such  an  extent  that,  though  he 
was  penniless,  there  was  one  he  would  not  sell  at 
any  price. 

As  Mr.  Nibbs  looked  at  him  he  wondered  if  that 
really  were  so.  Was  there  a  man  living  who  would 
not  succumb  to  a  fancy  price?  With  a  humorous 
impulse  and  a  brighter  twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  led 
him  back  into  the  shop,  picking  up  the  sketch  that 
still  lay  with  the  others  on  the  counter. 

"Look  here  now,  Mr.  Furlong,"  he  said,  "I've 
taken  a  fancy  for  this  sketch.  What  do  yer  want 
for  it?" 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  want  to  sell  it — really,"  said  he. 

"Give  yer  a  pound,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

This  was  the  first  appreciation  that  Dicky  had 
117 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ever  received  in  his  life.  The  remembrance  of  how 
his  father  had  called  his  painting  nonsense  came 
warmly  to  his  mind.  If  he  could  only  hear  the 
offer  this  little  man  was  making  now!  For  this 
indeed  was  appreciation.  It  was  not  the  twenty 
shillings  he  counted,  but  the  pound  that  stood  for 
Mr.  Nibbs'  approval  of  his  work.  Even  at  that 
stage  Dicky  knew,  as  every  artist  knows,  the  dif- 
ference between  praise  and  that  appreciation  which 
is  expressed  in  terms  of  actual  purchase. 

He  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  sound  of  the 
sum  Mr.  Nibbs  had  mentioned,  but  it  was  not  so 
great  as  that  he  could  forget  he  wanted  the  picture 
for  himself.  He  shook  his  head  again. 

"Well,  thirty  shillings,  then?"  continued  Mr. 
Nibbs. 

"No,  really,  I  don't  want  to  sell  it,"  said  Dicky. 
And  all  this  while  Emily's  eyes  had  been  opening 
wider  and  wider.  She  was  not  perfectly  sure  which 
of  the  two  had  more  completely  lost  his  senses, 
but  when  her  husband  offered  two  pounds,  then 
she  was  sure  it  was  he.  He  had  never  paid  two 
pounds  for  a  picture  in  his  life,  and  that  which  he 
was  offering  to  buy  now  he  would  never  be  able  to 
sell  for  more  than  fifteen  shillings.  However,  she 
said  nothing.  She,  too,  had  been  impressed  with 
Dicky's  personality,  and  it  is  probable  may  have 
guessed  some  of  the  thoughts  that  were  passing 
through  her  husband's  mind.  She  had  not  known 

118 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

him  for  eighteen  years  without  learning  his  weak- 
ness for  the  discovery  of  genius;  therefore,  it  was  a 
considerable  relief  to  her  mind  when,  in  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  she  realised  that  two  pounds  was  the 
highest  offer  he  intended  to  make. 

And  to  this  proposal  Dicky  had  as  yet  said  noth- 
ing. He  could  scarcely  believe  what  he  had  heard. 
Two  pounds  was  a  sum  beyond  the  wildest  dreams 
of  his  expectation.  He  thought  of  the  precedent  it 
established  in  his  mind,  the  appreciation  of  his 
work  that  it  conveyed,  and,  lastly,  of  the  money  he 
would  be  able  to  pay  back  to  Constance.  Yet  even 
then,  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  turn- 
ing his  back  on  the  temptation,  he  debated  with 
himself  whether  he  could  really  part  with  it  or  not. 
Realising  the  folly  of  it  at  last,  he  turned  back  with 
a  gesture  of  resignation  to  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "I  can't  refuse  that — you 
can  have  it  for  two  pounds.  It  isn't  worth  it.  I 
mean  it  isn't  worth  it  to  you." 

Instead  of  being  disappointed,  as  he  had  ex- 
pected, Mr.  Nibbs  was  satisfied  that  Dicky  was  no 
fool.  It  even  began  to  dawn  upon  his  mind  that 
Dicky  had  possibly  led  him  up  to  this  extraordinary 
offer. 

"You  worked  me  up  to  that  pretty  well,"  said 
he,  and,  though  there  had  been  nothing  ungenerous 
in  his  mind,  knew  as  he  said  it  that  it  had  been  the 
wrong  thing  to  say.  For  Dicky  had  snatched  the 

119 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sketch  from  off  the  counter,  and  his  eyes  were  bright 
with  indignation. 

"I  never  worked  you  up  to  it!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  didn't  want  to  sell  the  picture,  and  I'm  damned 
if  I'll  sell  it  now.  You  can  have  your  offer  back 
again." 

Again  the  little  print-seller  was  convinced  he  had 
made  a  discovery,  and,  though  he  was  very  much 
afraid  that  he  was  going  to  lose  the  picture  alto- 
gether, he  leant  across  the  counter  and  his  eyes  were 
dancing  with  amusement. 

"Give  it  back,  Mr.  Furlong,"  he  said  with  a 
chuckle.  "Give  it  here.  I  know  when  I'm  buying 
a  good  thing.  Why,  I'd  have  given  you  three 
pounds  for  it  if  you'd  held  out." 

"But  you  said  I'd  worked  you  up  to  it,"  per- 
sisted Dicky. 

"Ah — just  my  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs,  and 
he  appealed  to  his  wife  to  say  that  that  was  always 
the  way  he  went  on,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, she  said  it  was.  So  Dicky  handed  the  pic- 
ture back  again.  Mr.  Nibbs  took  it  over  to  the 
window  and  looked  at  it  more  closely.  Now  that 
he  was  about  to  pay  two  pounds  for  it,  he  began 
to  find  more  beauty  in  it  than  he  had  seen  at  first. 

It  was  not  a  subject  he  would  ever  have  thought 
of  himself,  but,  seeing  it  there  before  him,  there  was 
certainly  something  about  it.  He  could  not  explain 
what  it  was.  For  the  idea  of  one  of  those  wagons 

120 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

lumbering  up  Long  Acre  in  the  early  morning  on 
its  way  to  Covent  Garden  was  not  one  that  appealed 
to  him,  yet  as  he  regarded  it  he  had  pleasurable 
sensations.  He  thought  involuntarily  of  that  little 
patch  of  garden  behind  his  house  in  Greenwich 
where  he  grew  a  few  stocks  in  the  summer,  a  few 
tulips  in  spring  and  the  three  or  four  clumps  of 
chrysanthemums  flowered  well  into  December.  He 
thought,  too,  of  a  well-filled  garden  he  had  once 
been  taken  to  see  when  he  was  a  child.  He  could 
not  follow  the  association  of  ideas  in  his  mind,  but 
as  he  stood  there  under  the  light  in  the  window, 
looking  at  the  sketch  in  his  hand,  the  feeling  grew 
upon  him  that  he  liked  it. 

"What  do  you  call  this?"  he  asked  presently, 
looking  round.  "  'On  the  Way  to  Covent  Garden,' 
I  suppose.  Something  like  that.  'Off  to  the  Market,' 
eh?  That's  not  a  bad  name  for  it — 'Off  to  the  Mar- 
ket' What  do  you  call  it?" 

"I've  called  it  'Fragrance,'  "  said  Dicky. 

The  little  man  was  silent.  He  looked  back  once 
more  to  the  picture.  Fragrance  meant  sweetness — 
a  sweetness  of  scent.  He  tried  to  realise  the  apt- 
ness of  that  in  relation  to  Long  Acre,  that  street  of 
dirty  houses,  and  he  failed.  "Fragrance"  was  not 
the  title  he  would  have  given  it.  Yet  again,  as  he 
looked  at  it,  came  back  the  memory  of  that  well- 
stocked  garden.  It  was  strange,  after  all,  that  he 

121 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

should  have  called  it  "Fragrance."  Now  that  gar- 
den was  fragrant  if  you  liked. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  should  have  called  it  'Off  to 
the  Market/  myself — and,  mind  you,  I  think  I  could 
sell  it  better  if  I  called  it  that." 

Dicky  smiled.  "Unless  you  call  it  'Fragrance/  I 
sha'n't  sell  it  to  you,"  said  he. 

The  little  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  then,  div- 
ing his  hand  under  his  apron,  he  brought  out  from 
his  trousers'  pocket  a  well-worn  leather  purse.  From 
this,  without  a  word,  he  extracted  two  pounds  and 
laid  them  on  the  counter.  Emily  watched  these 
proceedings  with  interest.  There  was  not  a  little 
that  she  lost  by  this  transaction.  There  would  be 
no  picture  palaces  for  them  for  the  next  three  weeks 
or  more. 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  asked  Mr. 
Nibbs  at  last. 

Dicky  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  he. 

"Well,  you  can't  live  long  on  two  pounds.  Do 
you  owe  any  money?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much?" 

"Nearly  three  pounds." 

"How  soon  must  you  pay  it?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can." 

"Well,  then,  you  can't  live  long  on  this.  Emily" 
122 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

— he  turned  to  his  wife — "how  about  old  Marco? 
Has  he  found  anyone  yet?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  now,  look  here,"  said  he,  "there's  a  man 
lives  near  us  at  Greenwich — he  paints  pictures  by 
the  hundred  and  sells  'em  by  the  hundred.  They're 
no  good,  yer  know,  not  a  bit  of  good.  But  he  gets 
a  price  for  them  in  the  Caledonian  Market  and 
those  auction  rooms  in  the  Strand.  He  asked  me 
the  other  day  if  I  knew  anyone  as  could  give  him  a 
hand,  just  to  paint  seas  and  skies  and  things  like 
that — he  does  the  finishing  himself.  They  could 
stay  in  the  'ouse,  he  said,  and  he'd  give  'em  five 
bob  a  week  for  'emselves.  Now  it's  not  your  sort 
of  thing  at  all;  but  it's  something  to  do,  ain't  it? 
You  could  afford  to  go  to  the  schools  then — at  night. 
His  wife  helps  him,  but  she's  a  Frenchy;  she's  a 
lazy  creature." 

"She  ain't  his  wife,"  remarked  Emily. 

"Well,  she  ought  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs.  "I 
always  say  she  is.  At  any  rate,  he  wants  a  hand. 
And  that's  what  you'd  better  do  for  a  month  or 
two,  till  you  get  your  feet." 

Dicky  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  He  thrust 
out  his  hand  across  the  counter  and  wrung  the  hand 
of  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  do  all  this  for 
me,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I've  got  a  fancy  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs, 
9  123 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  that  was  about  the  best  reason  he  could  give. 
The  whole  of  his  life  was  a  fancy.  He  comes  in 
the  class  of  those  people  called  sentimentalists, 
which  may  be  abuse  of  him  to  some,  while  it  is  a 
recommendation  to  others. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

ALL  the  way  back  to  Drury  Lane  Dicky's 
spirits  lifted  to  the  tune  of  a  song.  People 
who  passed  him  smiled  at  him  in  the  street. 
There  was  no  doubt  he  was  pleased  with  himself. 
He  had  sold  his  first  picture;  he  was  jingling  the 
money  in  his  pocket,  and  the  whole  world  spread 
no  less  before  him  then  than  did  the  vast  breadth  of 
London  as  he  crossed  the  bridge  back  again  into 
the  Strand.  And  the  thought  of  work  cheered  him 
still  more.  Now  he  would  be  able  to  attend  the 
night  schools.  A  thousand  possibilities  arose  out 
of  his  imagination.  He  felt  like  one  surrounded  by 
a  multitude  of  friends,  all  linking  their  arms  in  his. 
Up  Drury  Lane,  as  he  came  near  Covent  Garden, 
a  little  girl  on  her  way  to  the  theatre  caught  the 
infection  of  his  singing,  smiled  at  the  smile  in  his 
face.  He  smiled  back  at  her  as  they  passed.  Hear- 
ing her  footsteps  stop,  he  turned.  She  was  looking 
after  him.  She  was  waiting  to  be  spoken  to.  He 
lifted  his  hat  and  smiled  again  and  laughed.  She 
laughed,  too,  and  beckoned  with  her  head.  He 
would  have  gone  on.  It  was  not  greatly  his  desire 
to  speak  to  her,  but  she  took  a  step  in  his  direction 

125 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  with  her  head,  her  eyes,  her  lips  she  beckoned 
again.  In  the  lightness  of  his  spirits  just  then  it 
would  have  amounted  to  a  want  of  manners  had  he 
not  turned  back. 

They  met  midway,  and,  feeling  uncomfortable 
now,  he  raised  his  hat  again. 

"You  seem  pretty  pleased  with  yourself,"  she  said 
with  plenty  of  presence  of  mind. 

"I've  just  sold  a  picture,"  said  Dicky. 

"Thought  you  were  an  artist,"  she  replied. 

"Why?" 

"Your  hair,  I  suppose." 

They  both  laughed  at  that,  and,  as  their  laughter 
ceased,  fell  into  awkward  silence.  It  was  not  her 
fault.  She  had  done  as  much  as  could  be  expected 
of  her.  It  was  his  turn  to  make  the  way  easy;  but 
Dicky  was  not  accustomed  as  yet  to  these  odd  en- 
counters in  life.  He  just  smiled  at  her  again;  smiled 
without  conviction. 

"Well,  I'm  just  going  down  to  the  theatre,"  said 
she  to  break  the  silence.  "Come  as  far  as  the  stage 
door?" 

He  shook  his  head.  He  had  just  sold  a  picture. 
He  said  he  wanted  to  get  back  home. 

She  understood.  He  was  not  really  interested; 
not  so  interested  in  her  as  she  was  in  him.  These 
things  have  to  be  borne  with.  So  she  just  turned 
her  head  and  said,  "So  long,"  still  cheeky,  still  with 
plenty  of  presence  of  mind,  as  she  walked  off. 

126 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  continued  his  way  back  to  Mrs.  Baldwin's. 
This  little  incident  had  amused  him.  It  was  even 
exhilarating;  he  felt  it  to  be  all  in  keeping  with 
the  glamour  of  the  day.  Some  corner,  somehow, 
had  been  turned.  He  did  not  know  why  it  should 
have  happened  on  that  particular  day  or  whether 
he  had  been  instrumental  in  any  way  in  its  accom- 
plishment. But  there  it  was.  A  new  road  stretched 
out  in  front  of  him,  and  when  he  thought  of  leaving 
the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane  it  was  still  with  a  feeling 
of  exhilaration.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  im- 
agine what  distress  it  might  bring  to  Constance.  In 
fact,  until  that  moment  when  he  presented  her  with 
thirty  shillings  in  part  payment  of  his  debt  and  saw 
the  pained  expression  in  her  eyes,  he  had  never 
dreamed  what  it  might  mean  to  her.  He  might 
even  have  thought  she  would  be  glad  to  get  some 
of  her  money  back — certainly  never  this,  this  look 
of  pained  bewilderment  as  though  he  had  struck 
her. 

She  took  the  money  in  silence,  as  if  it  were  an 
acceptance  of  the  inevitable;  then  laid.it  down  on 
the  table  by  her  side. 

"Where'd  you  get  this?"  she  asked.  Half  the 
hope  perhaps  was  there  that  he  had  not  come  by  it 
rightfully  and  she  might  yet  be  able  to  give  it  back. 

His  eyes  took  up  again  that  look  of  excitement. 

"I  sold  a  picture,"  said  he,  and  expected  her  hand 
impulsively  clasping  his.  He  waited,  but  he  waited 

127 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  vain  for  a  sign  of  her  enthusiasm.  Indeed,  what 
did  she  care?  For  she  saw  the  turning  he  had 
taken,  too,  and  knew  it  led  him  away  from  her. 
With  his  debt  discharged,  what  was  there  left  to 
hold  him?  Willingly  she  would  have  increased  his 
obligations,  to  hold  him  if  by  his  pride  alone. 

"Where  did  you  sell  it?"  she  persisted,  still  hop- 
ing and  in  doubt. 

"To  a  little  old  print-seller  in  the  Waterloo 
Bridge  Road." 

"Did  he  give  you  all  this  for  it?" 

"He  gave  me  two  pounds.  I've  kept  ten  shil- 
lings." 

Two  pounds !  For  one  of  those  paintings  that 
he  did!  Certainly  she  believed  in  him,  but  there 
was  not  a  picture  he  had  ever  done  for  which  she 
thought  anyone  would  pay  two  pounds.  She  was 
all  wrong,  then.  She  did  not  know  what  a  picture 
was  worth  or  when  it  was  good.  But  he  knew. 
That  was  why  he  persisted  in  doing  them.  Her 
turn  at  the  music  hall  suddenly  seemed  intensely 
futile  to  her,  By  hard  work  she  made  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week;  but  in  a  week  he  could  paint  three  of 
those  pictures  of  his. 

She  knew  then  how  surely  he  was  slipping  away 
from  her.  She  could  be  no  help  to  him  now.  He 
was  her  man  no  longer.  This  was  the  turning  Dicky 
had  taken.  From  that  moment  he  began  to  belong 
to  himself.  It  brought  no  more  surprise  to  her 

128 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

mind,  only  a  greater  chill  to  her  heart  when  she 
heard  that  he  was  going  at  the  end  of  that  week. 

"Sha'n't  see  no  more  of  you  after  that,  I  sup- 
pose," she  said  firmly. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  shouldn't 
I  see  you  again?  I'm  only  going  down  as  far  as 
Greenwich.  That's  not  a  long  way  off,  is  it?" 

"It  'ud  be  much  the  same  if  it  was  the  next 
street,"  said  she  bitterly.  "You  won't  come  this 
way  no  more.  The  Lane'll  be  a  damn  sight  too 
poor  a  place  for  you.  It  ain't  your  fault.  I'm  not 
sayin'  anythin',  blamin'  yer.  You've  sold  a  picture, 
and  that's  made  all  the  difference — 'asn't  it?  I 
don't  say  you  won't  come  because  I'm  no  more  good 
to  yer — but  yer  won't  come.  Why,  there's  a  girl 
at  the  Middlesex  now,  'er  fellar's  got  a  turn  at  the 
Pavillion,  and  do  yer  think  he  comes  to  fetch  'er 
of  a  night  like  'e  did  when  'e  was  playin'  at  the 
'Olborn?  My  dear  boy,  it  ain't  the  distance  of 
streets  as  makes  the  difference — it's  the  distance 
inside  yer." 

And  Dicky  knew  it  was  all  true — every  word  of 
it.  He  was  not  doing  it  himself — circumstance  was 
there  to  do  it  for  him.  He  had  turned  a  corner. 
He  had  sold  a  picture.  There  was  a  new  and  a 
different  world  before  him  now.  Yet  he  made  the 
best  face  of  it  a  man  can  make.  He  put  out  his 
hand,  not  because  he  felt  pity  for  her,  but  because 
he  felt  ashamed  of  himself. 

129 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"You've  been  a  tremendous  brick,"  he  said  gently, 
"and  I'm  going  to  paint  that  poster  for  you  one 
day." 

It  was  a  poor  offer  to  make  to  her.  Feeling  there 
was  but  little  profit  in  it  himself,  it  was  yet  the  best 
he  could  say. 

She  sat  back  on  the  table  for  a  moment,  looking 
at  him,  and  then  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  take  it  so  seriously  1" 
she  exclaimed.  "After  all,  what's  it  matter  one 
way  or  another?  Even  if  you'd  taken  me  out  into 
the  country  for  that  week-end  and  wanted  to  'ook 
it  now — it  wouldn't  'ave  made  much  difference, 
would  it?  But  you  ain't  even  done  that.  You've 
got  nothing  to  fret  about,  and  yet  to  look  at  yer 
one'd  think  you  was  getting  all  the  losing." 

Then  suddenly  the  laughter  went  out  of  her  eyes 
as  well.  The  look  of  an  animal  in  its  hunger  glit- 
tered there  instead.  She  leant  forward  and  stretched 
out  her  hand. 

"But  I  will  go  away  for  the  week-end,"  she  said 
thickly.  "You  can  take  me  if  you  like,  and  then 
you  can  go  off  to  your  Greenwich  and  never  see  the 
Lane  again — not  if  yer  don't  want  to.  I'll  never 
call  yer  back." 

This  was  the  high  summit  of  her  nature — the 
best,  the  very  best  she  had  to  give.  Her  eyes  were 
alight  as  she  offered  it.  She  knew  she  could  give 
no  more. 

130 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

And  Dicky  stood  there  rocking  in  his  mind,  his 
thoughts  unsteadily  trampling  down  all  reason,  out- 
sounding  the  cry  of  conscience  to  a  far  thin  voice. 

This  is  not  the  way  a  woman  moulds  a  man,  but 
who  can  deny  that  this  is  not  in  all  men's  making? 

She  caught  the  sight  of  a  look  in  his  face  and 
took  it  for  what  it  was  worth.  He  tried  to  hold 
her  back,  but  her  arms  were  unresisting. 

Dicky  had  turned  a  corner.  He  had  sold  a  pic- 
ture. In  this  fashion  he  entered  the  new  world 
that  lay  before  him. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

FROM  that  row  of  old  houses  known  in 
Greenwich  as  Ballast  Quay  you  may  see  the 
wide,  bright  stretch  of  the  river  as  far  as 
Limehouse  Reach.  There  it  bends  away  to  the 
right  and  you  can  follow  it  no  more.  Only  the  tall 
arms  of  Tower  Bridge  lifting  upwards  out  of  the 
smoky  haze  will  give  you  the  direction  of  its  jour- 
ney then,  and  beyond  that,  on  a  gray  day,  all  the 
city  is  caught  up  into  the  misty  horizon.  But  when 
the  sky  is  clear  the  buildings  of  Westminster  can 
be  seen  like  palaces  of  gossamer  that  appear  and 
disappear  as  if  by  magic,  in  obedience  to  a  magi- 
cian's wand.  For  the  smoke  clouds  are  always 
drifting  across  London,  now  concealing,  now  dis- 
closing, as  beautifully,  as  mysteriously  as  the  work 
of  any  wizard  in  a  land  of  fairies. 

This  is  a  London  that  only  the  workmen  and  the 
watermen  ever  see.  Greenwich  is  not  the  place  of 
holidays  and  excursions  that  it  was.  The  giant  fac- 
tories with  their  blazing  furnaces,  the  towering 
chimney  stacks,  pouring  forth  their  smoke  offerings 
to  the  overburdened  sky,  these  are  the  things  that 
have  driven  people  from  their  fish  dinners  at  the 

132 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Ship,"  yet  these  are  the  very  things  making  Green- 
wich beautiful. 

There  by  those  waters  it  is  a  river  full  of  the 
mystery  of  adventure.  All  day  long  and  all  night 
the  wash  of  the  steamers  putting  out  to  sea,  of  the 
steamers  coming  into  dock  from  every  wonderful 
quarter  of  the  earth,  laps  with  its  soothing  monot- 
ony against  the  river  walls.  By  day  and  by  night 
there  is  never  a  moment  but  what  the  urging  bow  of 
some  vessel  turns  the  point,  going  whither,  coming 
from  whence,  unless  you  are  a  waterman  you  might 
never  know.  There  life  is  all  the  end  or  the  prel- 
ude to  adventure,  and  ever  above  the  far,  dim  note 
of  the  distant  city  rise  the  voices  of  the  river  craft, 
high  and  low,  harsh  and  sweet,  as  the  brown-sailed 
barges  drift  and  the  tugs  go  chasing  by. 

They  are  so  numerous,  these  voices;  their  cries 
are  as  varied  as  the  cries  of  the  streets.  Never  is 
the  river  truly  silent.  From  the  dull  moan  of  the 
swinging  boom,  as  the  great  barge  puts  about 
against  the  wind,  to  the  lion-throated  horn  of  the 
liner  as  she  roars  her  passage  through  the  tiny  craft, 
there  is  always  a  story  to  listen  to,  some  tale  in  its 
inimitable  telling. 

As  night  falls  and  the  tall  chimneys  retreat  into 
the  darkness  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  ships,  now 
red,  now  green,  now  gold,  all  sway  and  glitter  with 
the  wash  of  the  tide.  In  great  hoards  the  barges 
lie,  guarded  by  their  lights.  Tn  those  masses  they 

133 


RICHARD   FURLONG 

are  like  reptiles  huddling  close  for  warmth.  And 
all  night  long  the  voices  murmur  or  they  cry.  The 
tug,  in  all  her  impudence,  shrieks  out  her  petulant 
note.  Up  and  down  the  dark  waters  the  police 
launch  creeps,  with  softened  footsteps  as  a  police- 
man on  his  midnight  beat.  Late  on  the  tide  a  barge 
swings  down,  full  broadside  on  the  running  stream. 
With  shouting  voices  and  the  clank  of  chains,  the 
snort  of  donkey  engines  and  the  dull  thud  of  the 
grinding  screw,  a  steamer  turns  into  her  bed  in 
dock.  And  then,  towards  morning,  comes  a  hush, 
that  still,  faint  hush  you  hear  in  London  streets — 
a  deep  breath  it  might  almost  be  before  the  sun  is 
up  and  the  metallic  sounds  of  day  break  out  once 
more. 

This  is  the  Greenwich  of  the  waterman,  of  all 
those  forever  going  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  But 
there  is  another  Greenwich  which,  because  of  his 
familiarity  with  it,  doubtless  the  waterman  seldom 
sees.  For  when  the  sun  lends  its  gold  to  the  drift- 
ing smoke  and  the  smoke  lends  its  mystery  to  the 
sun,  all  those  factories  and  chimneys,  all  those  gi- 
gantic sheds  by  the  wharf  side,  those  towering 
cranes  and  overreaching  derricks  become  minarets 
and  palaces  in  the  magic  light. 

Then  it  is  a  Venice  built  of  iron,  yet  just  as  mys- 
terious, just  as  elusive  as  that  marble  Venice  of  a 
more  romantic  age.  No  domes  of  churches  lift  into 
the  smoky  sun,  but  there  stand  in  all  their  stern 

134 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

majesty  those  iron  temples  of  strenuous  worship, 
sending  up  the  smoke  of  their  incense  to  the  tire- 
less God  of  toil.  No  gondolas  are  there,  skimming 
the  water  to  a  pliant  oar,  but  the  black  barges,  sink- 
ing heavily  in  the  stream,  drift  just  as  silently  on 
the  tide.  And  that  leaning  figure  of  the  oarsman, 
cut  in  silhouette  against  the  light,  he  is  the  gondolier 
of  this  iron  Venice,  riding  the  broad  water  into  the 
dim  purple  of  the  mist. 

And  here  it  was,  at  perhaps  the  most  impression- 
able period  of  his  life,  that  Dicky  came  in  hot  pur- 
suit of  his  ambition.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  Greenwich,  indeed  the  whole  riverside  proved 
so  powerful  an  influence  in  his  early  work.  The  fig- 
ures to  which  he  inclined  were  all  the  river  types,  and 
for  many  years  there  was  the  sign  of  roughness  and 
boldness  in  every  figure  drawing  that  he  made. 
Doubtless  it  was  these  surroundings,  also,  which, 
apart  from  the  influence  of  Mr.  Nibbs  and  his 
prints,  gave  him  the  suggestion  for  his  wood-engrav- 
ings, by  which  alone  he  might  be  remembered.  The 
massive  qualities  of  those  foundries  and  the  gigantic 
sheds  on  every  wharf  lent  themselves  willingly  to  his 
mind  for  the  work  he  then  pursued.  And  it  was  all 
the  mystery  of  atmosphere  combined  with  these  that 
made  him  first  see  how  coloured  wood  blocks  need 
not  rely  on  form  alone  for  the  beauty  which  they 
gave.  It  was  he  who  first  realised  that  tone  and 

135 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

mystery  could  be  produced  from  the  unyielding  ma- 
terial in  which  he  chose  to  work. 

His  wood-engraving — "The  Scavenger" — with  its 
massive  dredger  lying  in  the  Thames,  has  all  the 
atmosphere  of  any  painting  in  oil.  The  lines  of  the 
vessel,  with  just  the  circle  of  one  of  the  giant  pails 
cut  out  against  the  sky,  stand  forth  with  all  the 
clearness  you  would  expect  from  such  material  as 
wood.  But  on  beyond  this  grim  and  iron  thing 
there  spreads  the  golden  light  of  Limehouse  Reach, 
and  London  lies  upon  the  horizon  like  a  sleeping 
city,  wrapped  in  all  the  mystery  of  its  coverlet  of 
smoke. 

One  evening  early  in  the  week,  when  his  work 
in  the  shop  was  finished,  Mr.  Nibbs  took  Dicky 
down  with  him  to  the  house  on  Ballast  Quay  where 
this  Monsieur  Marco  lived.  As  they  came  out  of 
the  shop  the  little  print-seller  stood  still  and  turned 
Dicky's  attention  to  the  window.  In  a  plain  gold 
frame  there  hung  his  picture  in  the  most  conspicu- 
ous position,  outplacing  Thomas  Parker's  and  all 
the  coloured  prints  in  their  fumed  oak  frames. 
Beneath  it  on  a  card  was  written,  in  what  Mr. 
Nibbs  called  his  shop-window  hand,  "A  fine  original 
water-colour — Fragrance — by  Richard  Furlong — 
Cheap — Two  pounds  ten." 

Dicky  stood  and  looked  at  it,  overcome  by  those 
pleasurable  sensations  of  importance  which  can 
never  be  so  great  again  as  on  one's  first  acquaint- 

136 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ance  with  them.  He  had  never  seen  a  picture  of 
his  framed  before ;  he  had  never  seen  his  own  name 
writ  up  to  catch  the  public  eye.  Possibly  he  felt  as 
great  in  that  moment  as  ever  he  did  when  he  reached 
the  highest  summit  of  his  career.  He  laughed  a 
little  foolishly  as  he  looked  back  at  Mr.  Nibbs.  It 
was  very  difficult  to  be  quite  himself,  for  he  was 
not  himself.  The  story  of  Elijah  caught  up  into 
the  heavens  on  a  chariot  of  fire  occurred  to  his  mind 
in  likeness  to  himself,  and  his  smile  became  a  laugh 
— a  nervous  laugh — as  he  wondered  whether  even 
Elijah  had  behaved  quite  naturally  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

"It  looks  jolly  well  framed,  doesn't  it?"  he  said 
at  last;  "much  better,  even,  than  I  thought  it  was. 
I  like  it  awfully.  It  looks  ripping.  Don't  you 
think  you'll  sell  it  easily  enough  if  you  keep  it 
there?" 

Mr.  Nibbs  nodded  his  head  dubiously. 

"It  all  depends,"  said  he;  "all  depends  who  sees 
it.  The  centre  of  the  window  ain't  always  the  best 
place.  Some  people  like  findin'  what  they're  goin' 
to  buy — they  don't  want  to  'ave  it  pushed  in  front 
of  'em." 

But  Dicky  hardly  heard  what  he  said.  He  was 
lost  in  admiration  of  his  picture — an  admiration  that 
did  not  satisfy  but  spurred  him  on  to  higher  en- 
deavour. He  wanted  to  get  to  it  then  and  at  once, 
and,  taking  the  arm  of  Mr.  Nibbs,  he  pulled  him 

137 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

away.  And  the  little  print-seller  walked  by  his  side 
in  such  fashion  as  that  Dicky  might  continue  to  hold 
his  arm.  He  was  seriously  thinking  how  one  day 
he  might  say  that  young  Richard  Furlong  had 
walked  through  the  streets  of  London  with  him, 
arm  in  arm.  His  belief  in  his  discovery  was  as 
strong  as  that. 

That  Monsieur  Marco  had  been  expecting  them, 
and,  when  they  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  house  on 
Ballast  Quay,  he  was  not  long  in  opening  it. 

At  most  there  are  not  more  than  ten  in  this  little 
crescent  of  houses  that  fronts  the  river  looking 
across  the  broad  stretch  of  water  towards  the  West 
India  Docks.  For  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  per- 
haps, they  have  been  standing  there,  quite  near  to 
old  Trinity  Hospital,  and  not  a  thing  in  them,  I 
have  any  doubt,  has  been  changed.  They  wear  the 
same  old  Georgian  bowed  windows,  reminding  you 
of  the  high  stocks  worn  by  the  men  of  that  period, 
with  the  small  bowed  balconies  below,  as  though 
like  the  black  cravats  of  the  time.  They  are  only 
two  stories  in  height,  but  the  ceilings  are  lofty 
within.  Perhaps  they  had  a  certain  quiet  grandeur 
once,  were  enviable  houses  in  which  to  stay  when 
Greenwich  claimed  the  fashion  it  has  lost.  But 
they  have  no  grandeur,  only  quietness  now.  Some 
let  their  rooms,  and  the  others  who  have  avoided 
this  necessity  make  no  pretence  to  high  estate. 

Only  Monsieur  Marco,  amongst  all  those  famil- 
138 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ies  on  Ballast  Quay,  presumed  to  be  anything  bet- 
ter than  he  was.  He,  indeed,  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  his  next-door  neighbours,  and  they,  in 
fact,  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  Madame 
Marco  wore  no  wedding  ring.  Certainly  she  wore 
many  rings  which  everyone  had  seen;  but  it  was 
Mrs.  Henniker,  who  kept  a  general  shop  in  a  small 
alley  behind  the  Trafalgar  Hotel,  who  had  observed 
that,  amongst  all  these  gee-gaws,  the  wedding  ring 
was  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

"I  looked,  my  dear,"  she  told  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Weyburn,  "I  looked  carefully — because  these  for- 
eigners do  live  queerly — I've  'card  it  said  often. 
You'd  'ave  thought  she  might  'ave  worn  one  only 
for  appearance,  or  to  'ave  a  keeper  for  them  rings 
she  'as — but  there  wasn't  no  sign  of  it." 

And  Mrs.  Weyburn,  who  lived  at  number  four 
of  the  Quay,  was  a  talkative  little  person.  She 
warned  the  Quay  at  once,  and  the  Quay  ignored 
Monsieur  Marco  as  persistently  as  Monsieur  Marco 
ignored  the  Quay.  Whenever  his  good  lady  came 
out  into  the  street  there  were  eyes  behind  white 
lace  curtains  to  watch  her — women's  eyes,  for  it 
seems  women  are  most  interested  in  those  women 
they  condemn.  And  she  was  quite  well  aware  of 
those  eyes.  She  liked  them;  smiled  to  herself  when 
she  saw  a  lace  curtain  quiver  or  heard  a  window 
open  up  above.  It  meant  that  they  had  called  all  the 
way  upstairs  that  Madame  Marco  was  going  by — 
10  139 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

for  when  they  did  not  speak  of  her  as  "that 
woman,"  Madame  Marco  was  the  name  they  gave 
her.  So  she  would  walk  down  past  the  whole  row 
of  houses,  in  those  different  gowns  of  hers,  always 
a  trifle  overdressed.  And  if  she  walked  slowly  it 
must  be  excused  of  her.  She  liked  these  little  at- 
tentions so  much.  She  liked  the  politeness  of  Mrs. 
Henniker,  whenever  that  good  lady  served  her  over 
the  counter  in  the  general  shop.  She  liked  the  envy 
and  admiration  in  Mrs.  Henniker's  eyes  as  she 
gazed  at  the  rings  on  her  fingers.  None  of  the 
stones  was  real,  but  she  knew  Mrs.  Henniker  was 
not  aware  of  that.  Nothing,  in  fact,  was  real  about 
Madame  Marco  at  all,  nor  about  Monsieur  Marco 
either;  but  so  long  as  they  carried  their  deceptions 
with  success  they  were  both  as  happy  as  if  they 
owned  all  the  riches  they  pretended  to  display. 

It  was  known  by  no  one  on  Ballast  Quay,  and  I 
am  sure  that  few  are  aware  of  the  secret  beside 
myself,  but  that  Monsieur  Marco  was  none  other 
than  the  Signer  Pelloni  who  some  three  years  be- 
fore had  practiced  his  mesmeric  tricks  upon  a 
credulous  public  in  London.  He  had  described 
himself  as  having  all  the  diplomas  and  qualifica- 
tions of  a  medical  man,  obtained  in  Italy,  who, 
having  perfected  the  practice  of  mesmerism,  had 
come  before  the  public  to  give  them  the  manifold 
benefits  of  his  research. 

For  some  months  he  pursued  a  successful  career, 
140 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

partly  by  the  aid  of  accomplices,  of  whom  Madame 
Marco — in  those  days  Signorina  Allievi — was  one; 
partly  by  that  consummate  art  of  braggadocio  of 
which  he  was  a  master.  In  time  they  found  him 
out.  The  medical  profession  exposed  him.  He  was 
hunted  out  of  London  by  all  those  credulous  patients 
he  had  deceived.  What  became  of  him  for  those 
three  years  I  have  never  been  able  to  trace,  and 
then  at  last,  describing  himself  as  an  artist,  he  ap- 
pears once  more  as  that  Monsieur  Marco  and  takes 
a  house  on  Ballast  Quay. 

They  merely  knew  him  as  an  artist  there;  but  of 
the  kind  of  pictures  that  he  painted  only  Mr.  Nibbs, 
the  little  print-seller,  was  aware.  Why  he  had 
called  himself  Signer  Pelloni,  or  why  Monsieur 
Marco,  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  say.  He 
had  been  born  at  Cricklewood,  when  Cricklewood 
was  the  outskirts  of  London  and  looked  across  the 
green  fields  to  the  little  village  of  Edgware — which 
is  not  really  so  very  long  ago.  His  name  was 
Cheeseman — truly  a  name  that  any  man  might  drop. 
He  was  of  humble  origin,  too ;  for  his  father  was  a 
little  cobbler  who  sat  on  his  haunches  in  the  win- 
dow of  his  shop  and  stitched  leather  from  morning 
till  night. 

But  this  was  a  trade  that  Emanuel  had  no  wish- 
fulness  to  pursue.  There  was  the  divine,  perhaps 
the  satanic,  spark  of  temperament  in  his  composi- 
tion. He  began  by  deceptions  with  the  very  boots 

141 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

he  made,  until  a  customer  discovered  how  he  had 
been  imposed  upon,  and  his  father  turned  him  out 
of  the  shop,  prophesying  no  good  for  this  son  who, 
in  the  religious  devotion  in  his  heart,  he  had  called 
Emanuel. 

Thrown  thus  upon  the  world,  he  soon  learnt  that 
the  name  Emanuel,  coupled  with  that  of  Cheese- 
man,  was  not  the  one  to  succeed.  It  carried  no 
conviction  with  it  to  his  mind.  It  was  the  foreign 
suggestion  of  his  black  hair  and  small  brown  eyes 
which  doubtless  prompted  him  to  his  first  assump- 
tion of  a  foreign  name.  For,  though  he  had  never 
been  out  of  London  in  his  life,  he  began  at  an  early 
age  to  call  himself  by  names  either  Italian  or  French, 
according  to  his  purpose.  No  doubt  he  was  influ- 
enced in  this  by  the  period  in  which  he  served  as 
English  waiter  in  a  small  French  restaurant,  one 
of  the  first  that  started  in  Soho. 

In  that  restaurant,  attending  to  any  of  the  Eng- 
lish customers  who  chanced  to  come  in,  he  remained 
for  at  least  a  year.  Again  for  a  period  after  that 
you  lose  sight  of  him.  Then,  with  his  hair  grown 
longer,  looking  more  foreign  than  ever,  he  was  to 
be  seen  singing  in  the  streets.  He  had  no  voice  to 
speak  of,  yet  a  certain  trick  of  producing  it  earned 
him  a  lively  income.  Here  again  he  deceived  the 
public.  The  look  he  could  put  into  his  eyes,  as  he 
sang  the  sentimental  love  songs  of  the  day,  the 
cunning  way  he  took  his  voice  from  tenor  to  fal- 

142 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

setto  whenever  a  note  was  to  be  reached,  these  were 
the  little  things  that  made  him  popular  wherever 
he  went 

And  then  a  bout  of  wet  weather,  a  terrible  chill, 
followed  by  pneumonia,  finished  his  career  as  a 
singer.  After  this  he  took  the  name  of  Signor  Pel- 
loni,  and,  with  tricks  he  had  learnt  from  a  Spaniard 
in  Soho,  he  began  his  practice  as  a  mesmerist.  If 
his  success  in  this  capacity  lasted  nine  months,  it 
certainly  was  no  longer.  But  in  that  short  time  he 
must  have  amassed  a  considerable  amount  of  money, 
for  his  disappearance  for  three  years  seems  to  mark 
the  period  during  which  he  was  living  at  his  ease. 
Finally  he  conies  to  this  painting  of  pictures — by  the 
hundred,  as  Mr.  Nibbs  had  justly  said,  and  selling 
them  by  the  hundred,  too.  What  was  most  extraor- 
dinary in  the  character  of  this  Monsieur  Marco  was 
the  extent  to  which  he  took  himself  seriously  in  all 
his  various  practices  of  deception.  It  was  never  in 
the  nature  of  him  to  accomplish  anything  by  honest 
measures,  so  that  in  time  he  comes  to  regard  his 
powers  of  deceit  as  seriously  as  the  true  artist  con- 
siders his  own  sincerity. 

This,  then,  was  the  man,  eaten  up  with  the  con- 
ceit of  his  own  accomplishments,  who  comes  into  the 
life  of  Dicky  Furlong  and  adds  that  link  to  the 
whole  chain  of  circumstance  without  which  this  his- 
tory would  be  incomplete. 


143 


CHAPTER   XV 

WHEN  you  consider  that  the  name  of  the 
man  was  Emanuel  Cheeseman,  that  he 
was    the    son    of    a    little    cobbler    in 
Cricklewood,  and  that  he  had  never  been  out  of 
London  in  his  life,  his  welcome  to  Dicky  in  the 
character  of  Monsieur  Marco,  the  artist,  if  eccen- 
tric, at  least  was  masterly.     Seizing  both  of  Dicky's 
hands  in  his,  he  wrung  them  warmly,  then  affection- 
ately laid  an  arm  on  his  shoulder. 

"Brothers — eh,  Mr.  Nibbs?"  he  said,  and  there 
was  even  the  trace  of  a  foreign  accent  in  his  voice, 
that  accent  which,  with  patient  application,  he  had 
acquired  during  his  servitude  in  Soho.  For  this 
was  another  peculiarity  in  his  temperament.  He 
had  the  genius  for  taking  pains,  but  only  in  the  de- 
ceits he  practised.  As  a  singer,  he  never  learnt  to 
sing,  only  to  master  those  little  tricks  by  which  he 
made  the  public — his  public  of  the  streets — believe 
he  had  a  fine  voice.  So,  with  infinite  trouble,  he 
had  rid  himself  of  a  cockney  twang  and  assumed 
this  foreign  accent  in  its  place. 

"Brothers  of  the  brush,  Mr.  Nibbs,"  said  he, 
rolling  his  r's;  "the  older  brother  and  the  younger 
brother — eh !" 

144 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Then,  striking  an  attitude  of  protection,  he  re- 
garded Dicky  with  a  genial  expression  of  camara- 
derie. 

"It's  a  noble  profession,  my  boy,"  said  he; 
"noble  but  poorly  paid.  If  I  sent  my  pictures  to 
the  Academy,  believe  me,  I  should  be  a  rich  man. 
But  what  is  the  Academy  to-day?  What  is  it?  The 
trademark — do  I  mean  the  hallmark — the  hallmark 
of — of — ineptitude." 

He  stood  away  and  watched  the  effect  of  that 
last  word  upon  Dicky's  mind.  But  Dicky  was  too 
bewildered  by  these  effusions  to  be  capable  of  any 
impression.  So  Monsieur  Marco  turned  his  glance 
upon  Mr.  Nibbs.  But  Mr.  Nibbs  knew  well  enough 
that  all  this  was  nonsense — just  Monsieur  Marco's 
talk.  He  listened  stolidly  and  blinked  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  believe  what  I  say!"  exclaimed  Mon- 
sieur Marco.  "You're  thinking  of  those  pictures  I 

paint   to   sell — those   terrible,    terrible   things 

Oh,  my  God,  man!  don't  think  of  them!  They 
make  my  living — that  is  all.  A  man  must  live,  Mr. 
Nibbs.  But  have  you  seen  my  portrait  of  Madame 
Marco?  Have  you  seen  my  portrait  of  the  King, 
for  which  he  gave  me  six  sittings  as  long  as  two 
years  ago?  No — you  have  not  seen  them.  I  do  not 
boast  about  the  things  I  do.  They  are  there  in  my 
studio.  Do  I  show  them  to  you?  No!  But  they 
have  my  heart  in  them,  Mr.  Nibbs.  I  am  painting 
Madame  Marco  again  now — the  tout  ensemble,  the 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

glorious  altogether!  But  would  she  let  me  show  it? 
No!  She  is  so  shy — with  that  figure!  A  Venus, 
Mr.  Nibbs,  but  shy  and  modest  as  a  little  girl.  And 
you  would  judge  me  by  these  pot-boilers  that  I  do 
to  make  my  living!" 

In  despair  and  disgust  he  turned  away.  Even 
Mr.  Nibbs  was  impressed  by  his  grief,  and  Dicky 
felt  that  the  wretched  man's  life  was  a  tragedy. 

"Why  don't  you  sell  your  portrait  of  the  King?" 
he  asked. 

Monsieur  Marco  turned  on  him  in  an  instant. 
"Sell  my  portrait  of  the  King!"  he  exclaimed.  "To 
whom?  I  ask  you  to  whom?  To  the  nation! 
Yes!  But  would  they  buy  it?  No!  Why,  my 
dear  boy,  you  will  learn  in  good  time  that  this  Eng- 
land of  yours  has  no  more  art  in  its  noddle  than  I 
have  in  the  tip  of  my  little  finger.  What  do  they 
buy?  Sargents,  if  they  can  get  'em.  Watts,  Tur- 
ner, Rossetti !" 

Dicky's  eyes  lit  up. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  against  Watts  and 
Turner?"  he  exclaimed. 

The  wise  Monsieur  Marco  understood  the  look 
in  his  eyes  and  bowed  in  submission  to  their  superi- 
ority. 

"Great  men,  my  boy,  great  men.  But  who  recog- 
nised them?  No  one.  That's  the  fate  of  all  fine 
artists.  Never — never  should  I  dream  to  call  my- 
self a  fine  artist — but  that'll  be  my  fate,  too.  Well 

146 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

— well — let's  come  and  have  our  meal.  There  are 
sausages  for  supper." 

All  this  while  they  had  been  standing  in  the  nar- 
row hall,  but  at  the  thought  of  that  delicacy  for 
supper  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  led  the  way  into  the 
dining-room,  where  Madame  Marco  was  already 
pouring  out  the  tea. 

"My  darling,"  said  Monsieur  Marco  with  a  fine 
gesture,  "our  little  brother  of  the  brush." 

Dicky  stood  in  the  doorway,  confused,  just  con- 
scious that  a  little  woman,  who  was  none  too  slight 
and  none  too  young  yet  as  fascinating  as  any  woman 
he  thought  he  had  ever  seen,  was  smiling  at  him  so 
engagingly  that  first  he  smiled  and  then  he  looked 
away. 

"Kiss  your  little  brother,  my  darling,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Marco;  "brother  and  sister.  It  is  the  right 
thing  to  do.  One  kiss,  my  dear,"  and,  taking  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Nibbs,  he  stood  by,  chuckling  pleas- 
antly to  see  his  command  so  willingly  obeyed.  For 
without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  came  prettily  to 
Dicky's  side.  He  felt  a  soft,  round  cheek  pressed 
against  his  own  and  two  lips  meeting  on  his.  When 
she  stood  back,  his  own  cheeks  were  crimson,  and 
they  all  laughed.  Even  Mr.  Nibbs  gurgled  in  his 
throat.  But  to  Dicky,  who  had  not  yet  found  his 
sense  of  humour,  it  was  a  terrible  moment  that.  He 
was  heartily  glad  when  they  all  sat  down  to  table 

147 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  a  steaming  plate  of  sausages  and  mashed  pota- 
toes was  placed  in  front  of  him. 

All  through  the  meal  Dicky  slowly  emerged  from 
the  confusion  of  his  mind.  Madame  Marco  fasci- 
nated him.  She  was  just  that  age  inevitably  attrac- 
tive to  a  boy  as  young  as  he.  But  all  the  time  he 
kept  wondering  how  Monsieur  Marco  could  speak 
of  her  as  a  Venus.  She  was  so  plump  and  good- 
natured  that  the  comparison  seemed  almost  ludi- 
crous. He  ascribed  it  to  Monsieur  Marco's  for- 
eign ways.  There  was  no  doubt  that  his  deception 
in  this  was  successful.  Everyone  did  take  him  for 
a  foreigner,  an  illusion  that  found  every  support  in 
the  evident  nationality  of  Madame  Marco  herself. 

She  indeed  was  French,  though  no  history  dis- 
closes her  name  before  she  took  that  of  Madame 
Marco.  His  constant  association  with  her  doubt- 
less accounted  for  the  perfection  of  his  imitation. 
Indeed,  if  by  this  time  it  was  imitation  at  all,  then 
it  was  almost  unconscious.  He  never  lapsed  into 
the  cockney  twang,  never  made  any  mistake  of 
speech,  and  always  accompanied  everything  he  said 
with  such  spontaneous  gestures  as  deceived  everyone 
who  knew  nothing  of  his  past. 

When  supper  was  over  they  all  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  where  was  the  low-ceilinged 
attic  which  Monsieur  Marco  called  his  atelier.  Fol- 
lowing in  the  rear  of  this  procession  with  Dicky, 

148 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Mr.  Nibbs  found  the  opportunity  of  catching  his 
arm  and  whispering  in  his  ear. 

"Remember,  mind,"  said  he,  "I  told  yer  'e  was 
no  good.  But  don't  you  let  'im  think  yer  know  it. 
It  means  five  bob  a  week  to  you  and  a  night  class 
at  the  art  schools." 

It  was  wise  advice  to  Dicky,  who,  when  it  came 
to  pictures,  was  always  ready  to  say  exactly  what 
he  thought.  But  even  with  this  warning  of  Mr. 
Nibbs,  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  sight  that  met 
his  eyes.  On  the  four  walls  of  the  attic  were  pinned 
long  strips  of  canvas,  not  more  than  two  feet  wide. 
All  of  these  were  in  various  states  of  preparation 
for  the  hundreds  of  pictures  that  Monsieur  Marco 
painted,  for  the  hundreds  of  pictures  that  he  sold. 
On  one  strip  nothing  but  broad  lines  of  sea  and 
sky  were  visible,  the  canvas  divided  into  two  parts 
to  carry  these  two  mighty  elements.  Dicky  was 
just  conscious  that  it  was  sea  and  sky,  because  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sea  was  covered  with  lines  of 
ripples  in  mathematical  precision,  and  the  paler  blue 
of  the  sky  was  flecked  and  dotted  with  conventional 
white  clouds.  On  the  next  wall  the  canvas  was 
more  advanced;  great  cliffs  towered  out  of  the 
water,  dim  distant  headlands  lay  on  the  horizon. 
Still  on  another  wall  was  a  strip  of  canvas  nearer 
completion.  The  cliffs  were  filled  in  with  detail. 
Huge  boulders  rose  one  above  the  other,  crowned 
with  shrubs  in  flower  that  never  grew  except  in 

149 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Monsieur  Marco's  atelier.  Then,  lastly,  on  the 
fourth  wall,  the  wall  on  which  all  the  genius  of 
Monsieur  Marco  was  employed,  there  was  the  fin- 
ished article — a  strip  of  canvas  covered  from  one 
end  to  the  other  with  these  lines  of  cliff  and  sky  and 
sea.  But  here  there  were  sea-gulls  flying;  ships 
were  being  wrecked  or  riding  gaily  with  white  sails 
on  the  sea  of  royal  blue. 

From  one  stage  to  the  other  Dicky  turned  and 
looked  at  them;  from  one  stage  to  the  other  they 
became  more  impossible  in'  his  eyes.  He  struggled 
to  remind  himself  of  that  five  shillings  a  week,  and, 
realising  at  last  that  his  silence  was  a  more  damning 
criticism  than  anything  he  could  have  said,  he  forced 
himself  to  show  some  interest  in  this  preposterous 
exhibition. 

A  sense  of  humour  would  have  saved  him  there 
again,  but  he  took  it  all  seriously,  wondering  why 
the  struggle  in  life  should  be  so  hard  as  to  condemn 
him  to  such  work  as  this.  However,  there  was 
Monsieur  Marco  waiting,  with  hands  on  his  hips, 
his  long  hair  thrown  back,  his  eyes  glistening  with 
pride  at  the  ingenuity  of  his  work.  They  all  stood 
and  looked  at  Dicky,  curious  or  eager,  while  in 
Madame  Marco  was  a  pretty  indifference  to  what 
he  had  to  say. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand  it,"  he  said 
at  last.  "Don't  you  ever  construct  your  pictures?" 

And   this — almost  these  very  words — was  just 
150 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

what  Monsieur  Marco  had  been  waiting  for.  He 
slapped  Mr.  Nibbs  on  the  shoulder  and  he  beamed 
with  delight. 

"The  very  thing,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  very  thing 
I  should  have  asked  myself!  But  that,  my  boy,  is 
where  the  cleverness  of  it  all  comes  in." 

He  took  a  large  scissors  out  of  a  small  drawer, 
and,  brandishing  them  excitedly  before  Dicky's  face, 
he  said: 

"Here's  the  little  instrument  I  do  all  my  con- 
struction with.  They  all  do  it,  but  they  wouldn't 
admit  it.  A  cut  too  much,  a  cut  too  little,  and  the 
picture  is  spoilt.  Now  watch  this.  This  canvas 
was  dry  to-day." 

He  ripped  one  end  from  the  fourth  wall  and, 
applying  the  scissors  with  a  certain  amount  of  care, 
he  cut  off  about  half  a  yard.  Without  showing  it 
to  them,  he  picked  up  an  empty  gold  frame  that 
leant  against  the  wall  and  fitted  the  picture  within. 
Then  he  held  it  up  for  all  of  them  to  look  at. 

It  was  such  a  picture  as  you  see  in  public  houses, 
in  country  inns,  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  suburban 
villas,  on  the  walls  of  artisans'  cottages.  There  was 
the  steep  wall  of  cliff  with  its  gaudy  ornamentation 
of  flowering  shrubs  and  gorse;  there  were  the  con- 
ventional gulls  flying  above  the  conventional  water, 
the  impossible  ship  riding  on  the  impossible  sea. 
Many  was  the  time  Dicky  had  stood  in  front  of 
such  a  picture  in  the  houses  about  Eckington,  won- 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

dering  who  painted  them,  how  there  could  live  a 
man  who  had  the  patience  to  paint  such  trash.  Now 
he  knew,  and  he  himself  had  entered  into  that  man's 
service. 

"Well,"  said  Monsieur  Marco,  "what  do  you 
think  of  it,  young  man?  Say  your  mind  out.  Am  I 
afraid  of  criticism,  my  darling?"  He  turned  with  a 
loving  gesture  to  his  wife.  "Am  I  greedy  for 
praise?" 

She  shook  her  head,  then  laid  it  on  his  shoulder. 
But  there  was  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes  which  no  one 
saw  as  she  idly  watched  Dicky's  face. 

"Well,"  repeated  Monsieur  Marco,  "out  with  it. 
You  don't  like  it— eh?" 

His  tone  of  voice  had  subtly  changed  now  with 
the  prolongation  of  Dicky's  silence.  Madame  Marco 
knew  that  change  so  well,  and  even  Dicky  was 
dimly  conscious  of  what  it  meant.  At  last,  with  a 
note  of  conviction  that  was  forced  from  him  by  the 
irony  he  felt,  he  exclaimed:  "I  think  it's  marvel- 
lous!" At  which  Monsieur  Marco  threw  his  arm 
round  his  neck  and  told  him  they  were  going  to  be 
as  fond  of  each  other  as  two  brothers. 

When  he  had  gone  to  bed  that  night  in  the  attic 
room  that  had  been  allotted  to  him,  Dicky  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  cried,  more  from  shame  than 
disappointment.  It  was  the  insult  to  his  ambition 
which  he  could  not  bear,  for  it  wants  the  experience 
of  years  to  know  that  ambition  is  like  religion,  need- 

152 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ing  the  buffeting  of  adverse  circumstance  to  give  it 
lasting  power.  Such  experience  as  this  Dicky  had 
not  yet  won.  He  thought  that  night  as  he  lay  awake 
that  there  was  no  hope  for  him  in  these  sur- 
roundings. 

Indeed,  it  was  only  after  some  years  that  he  came 
to  realise  the  full  value  of  those  days  in  Monsieur 
Marco's  atelier. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

FOR  five  shillings  a  week,  his  food,  and  a  bed 
in  an  attic  room  of  that  house  on  Ballast 
Quay,  Dicky  was  expected  to  do  the  work 
which  Madame  Marco  had  done  before  him.  His 
duty  it  was  to  paint  the  skies,  the  seas,  and  all  the 
foundations  of  landscape  which  Monsieur  Marco's 
cunning  brush  completed.  And  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore he  found  that  other  things  were  expected  of 
him,  too.  He  had  to  run  errands,  to  help  in  the 
kitchen,  fetch  Monsieur  Marco's  slippers  of  an 
evening,  and,  when  this  was  done,  betake  himself 
to  the  Crown  and  Thistle  for  that  pot  of  beer  in 
which  Monsieur  Marco  drowned  all  the  cares  of 
the  day  and  brought  himself  to  a  fine  condition  of 
good  temper. 

And  all  these  inferior  duties  Dicky  cheerfully 
accepted  for  the  sake  of  that  five  shillings  and  the 
opportunity  it  gave  him  to  join  the  art  schools. 
The  first  moment  that  he  could  afford  it  he  entered 
the  night  classes  at  the  Polytechnic,  where  every 
evening,  after  his  duties  were  over,  he  worked  for 
two  hours  with  all  the  energy  and  tirelessness  of 
which  his  youth  was  capable. 

154 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

These  days  in  his  life  are  the  making  of  the  man 
when  he  is  so  many  times  more  interesting  than  in 
the  full  tide  of  his  success.  The  clock  would  be  on 
the  stroke  of  eleven,  the  house  in  darkness,  and  the 
sounds  of  Monsieur  Marco's  heavy  sleeping  rever- 
berating like  thunder  before  Dick  returned,  tired 
and  exhausted,  from  his  work. 

On  the  table  in  the  dining-room  he  always  found 
a  plate  of  sandwiches,  which,  however  nasty  they 
were,  made  good  eating  at  that  hour  of  the  night. 
This  was  the  expression  of  Madame  Marco's  grati- 
tude for  the  work  he  had  taken  from  her  shoulders. 
For  since  he  had  come  she  could  spare  the  time  to 
put  on  her  gaudy  dresses  and  walk  slowly  down  of 
an  afternoon  past  all  the  houses  on  the  Quay,  and 
from  thence  on  to  the  Greenwich  High  Street,  where 
people  turned  to  look  at  her.  So  she  kept  fresh  in 
her  mind  that  knowledge  of  how  attractive  she  was, 
and,  when  occasion  presented  itself,  she  would  take 
a  tram  up  to  London  to  walk  in  the  streets  there, 
too,  and  look  in  the  shop  windows.  Gentlemen 
sometimes  spoke  to  her,  and,  though  she  turned 
away  without  answer,  these  little  attentions  were 
very  pleasing.  After  such  incidents  as  these  she 
would  come  home  to  Monsieur  Marco  that  evening 
and  be  more  affectionate  and  attentive  than  ever. 

Dicky  himself  interested  her,  too.  He  was  young. 
She  expected  little  flatteries  and  gentle  recognitions 
11  155 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

from  him,  and,  when  she  did  not  get  them,  began 
to  regard  him  with  greater  interest  still. 

It  became  obvious  in  time  to  her  that  he  was  in 
love,  and,  in  her  idle,  sensuous  way,  she  thought  of 
him  with  amusement  as  a  lover.  He  would  be  hot- 
headed, passionate  and  impetuous.  Across  the 
table  at  meals,  when  neither  he  nor  Monsieur 
Marco  were  watching  her,  she  would  look  at  the 
sensitive  curve  of  his  lip,  at  the  bright  glitter  of  his 
eyes  and  that  half-puritanical  expression  of  reserve 
he  always  wore  when  in  repose.  She  admitted  to 
herself  it  would  be  amusing  to  see  him  make  love; 
to  be  at  a  safe  distance  and  watch  that  flash  of  his 
eyes  with  which  in  every  argument  they  swiftly 
lighted  up.  There  was  too  much  lethargy  in  her 
nature  to  wish  that  she  might  kindle  these  emotions 
on  her  own  behalf.  She  was  one  of  those  women 
whose  passions  are  mostly  curiosity,  and  when,  as 
time  slipped  by,  Dicky  did  not  come  to  her  with 
his  confidences  of  his  own  accord,  she  set  out  to  dis- 
cover them  herself. 

It  was  one  morning  when  Monsieur  Marco  had 
taken  up  a  great  batch  of  his  pictures  to  Town  that 
she  put  on  one  of  her  best  dresses,  which,  had  she 
known  it,  was  her  worst,  and,  mounting  the  stairs, 
rapped  gently  on  the  door  of  the  studio. 

Almost  before  the  sound  of  Dicky's  voice  had 
answered  her,  she  had  entered  to  find  him  sitting 
disconsolately  on  the  floor. 

156 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Tired?"  said  she. 

He  jumped  at  once  to  his  feet,  and  she  smiled. 
After  the  ponderous  good  intentions  of  Monsieur 
Marco — intentions  that  were  never  fulfilled — man- 
ners like  these  were  quite  charming  to  the  little  lady. 
But  she  liked  him  better  at  his  ease,  so,  dropping 
herself  unceremoniously  on  to  the  floor  with  little, 
or  perhaps  with  careful,  consideration  as  to  the  way 
her  ankles  were  disclosed,  she  bid  him  sit  down 
again  beside  her. 

"You're  an  artist,"  said  she.  "I  prefer  you  on 
the  floor.  Don't  you  like  this  business — heh?" 

She  nodded  prettily  with  her  head, to  the  long 
strips  of  canvas;  she  sniffed  with  her  nose  at  the 
pervading  smell  of  paint. 

All  this  encouraged  confidence,  persuaded  hon- 
esty. After  two  hours'  work,  Dicky  had  thrown 
down  his  brushes  just  before  she  came  in,  and  there 
had  almost  been  tears  of  despair  in  his  eyes  as  he 
sat  down,  exhausted,  where  she  had  found  him  on 
the  floor. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  said  suddenly,  feeling  safe  with 
her.  "I  can't  take  any  interest,  can't  put  my  heart 
into  it — it's — it's — such " 

"Trash?"  she  suggested,  and  her  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  he  replied,  half-laughing. 

"No — but  why  do  you  do  it?     Heh?" 

"Because  it  pays  for  my  term  at  the  school.  I've 
got  to  learn  to  make  my  living,  and  I've  got  to 

157 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

make  it  at  the  same  time.  Do  you  know,  I've  been 
nearly  six  whole  months  in  London,  and  all  that 
time  I've  done  nothing." 

"Nothing?"  She  arched  her  eyebrows,  and,  to 
one  with  more  experience  of  the  world  than  Dicky, 
need  have  said  no  more  than  that.  But  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  he  was  still  thinking  of  his  work,  sub- 
limely unconscious  of  her  blandishments.  "Not  even 
fallen  in  love?"  she  added. 

He  looked  up  quickly  to  her  eyes  and  read  there 
her  invitation  to  his  confidence.  It  was  a  dainty 
invitation,  too;  full  of  promises  of  sympathy  and 
generous  in  understanding.  Another  moment  and 
he  was  telling  her  all  of  Dorothy,  opening  out  his 
heart,  disclosing  the  deepest  corners  of  his  emotion. 

She  smiled  and  nodded,  nodded  and  smiled  as  she 
listened.  It  was  just  as  she  had  expected.  He  was 
an  ardent,  a  passionate  lover.  The  gratification  of 
her  curiosity  was  pleasant  and  soothing;  but  as  his 
story  came  to  the  night  when  he  and  Dorothy  had 
said  good-bye,  she  felt  inwardly  disturbed,  despite 
herself. 

"Well?"  she  said.  "Well— that  was  not  all, 
heh?" 

Her  eyes  were  dancing  in  a  scrutiny  of  his  face, 
and  she  found  her  answer  in  his  eyes  that  straightly 
met  her  own. 

"You  behaved  well?  You  behaved  badly — eh — 
which?  And  now  you  are  ashamed  of  yourself — 

158 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

you  are  an  Englishman  and  you  are  ashamed  of 
yourself — is  that  how  it  is?" 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  that,"  said  he. 

She  detected  the  faintest  tone  in  his  voice  as  he 
replied.  Had  she  not  guessed  it?  He  was  hot- 
headed, impetuous.  It  would  be  amusing  to  see  him 
in  love. 

"You  are  ashamed  of  the  other  one,  though," 
said  she. 

Then  he  knew  she  knew,  for  indeed  he  had  meant 
her  to  know,  had  wanted  to  tell  someone  of  his 
folly,  and  why  not  her?  It  is  so  easy  to  tell  these 
things  to  a  woman;  to  begin  with,  they  are  so  in- 
teresting to  her,  and  a  woman  always  has  a  big 
heart  for  the  follies  of  every  man  but  him  she  loves 
herself.  Nodding  and  smiling  again,  she  listened 
while  he  told  her  of  Constance.  If  there  had  been 
a  hundred  others,  she  would  have  listened  just  as 
sympathetically.  Indeed,  curiosity  was  truly  the 
passion  in  her. 

"And  you  are  ashamed  of  that?"  said  she  when 
he  had  done. 

Dicky  bent  his  head. 

"It  isn't  possible  for  a  man  to  love  two  women, 
is  it?"  he  said  at  last.  "Because  I  know  I  love 
Dorothy — absolutely — terribly.  I  couldn't  convince 
myself  that  I  loved  Constance,  too — could  I?  I 
hardly  thought  what  I  was  doing  till  it  was  all  over. 
She  seemed  fine  to  me  then — big  and  generous — 

159 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

she  seems  that  still.  It's  only  I  who  find  myself  dif- 
ferent now  it's  over.  I — I  seem  just  a  cad!" 

For  a  moment  or  two  Madame  Marco  was  si- 
lent in  her  admiration  of  his  self-contempt;  then, 
throwing  back  her  head  and  laughing,  she  clapped 
her  little  hands. 

"Oh — you  nice  Englishmen!"  she  cried.  "If  I 
were  a  little  Dorothy  or  a  little  Constance  what  a 
splendid  lover  you'd  make.  Why  does  a  woman 
ever  grow  old?  Why  couldn't  I  have  kept  young  a 
little  longer?" 

"But  you're  not  old,"  said  Dicky. 

She  had  waited  for  that,  but  he  did  not  say  it 
quite  the  right  way.  In  the  faint  inflection  of  his 
voice  she  knew  that  he  found  her  just  as  old  as  she 
was.  Thirty-eight?  Perhaps.  The  worst  of  it  is 
the  ease  with  which  one  remembers  when  one  is 
always  trying  to  forget.  Imperceptibly  her  spirits 
fell.  Those  little  disturbances  quietened  within  her ; 
her  pulse  dropped  to  a  slower  measure. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  she,  "don't  you  see  you're 
only  beginning.  Young  men's  fancies,  is  it,  turn  to 
thoughts  of  love — is  that  it?  But  they're  only 
fancies.  Your  Dorothy  and  your  Constance,  they're 
only  helping  you  on  your  way,  exciting  you  to  work. 
Between  them  they're  making  you  do  all  this  nasty 
business  just  so  that  you  can  get  to  your  old  night 
classes.  And  Gladys  and  Emily  and  all  the  rest  of 
them,  they'll  all  come  in  somewhere  or  other  and 

1 60 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

help  their  little  as  well.     Can  you  work  on  two  pic- 
tures at  once — heh?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  then — there  you  are !  You're  in  love 
with  them  both — with  this  little  Dorothy  because 
she's  gentle  and  sweet  and  complacent — that  is  a 
good  word — heh?  And  you're  in  love  with  this 
little  Constance  because  she's  big  and  fine  and  gen- 
erous. And  little  Dorothy  makes  you  do  this 
beastly  business  because  you  want  to  get  on,  and 
Constance  makes  you  go  and  paint  fine  things,  and 
you  don't  care  a  damn — that  naughty  word! — 
whether  you  get  paid  for  them  or  not,  because  if 
you  have  no  money  she's  so  glad  to  give  it  to  you. 
Isn't  it  so?" 

"No!"  cried  Dicky  vehemently,  the  more  vehe- 
mently because  he  feared  it  to  be  true.  "Dorothy's 
the  one  I  care  about.  I  only  admire  Constance — 
I've  only  felt  just  passion  for  her,  and  I'm  ashamed 
of  that  now." 

Madame  Marco  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  said  she  patiently. 
"You  all  have  it  that  way  over  here  in  England. 
You  treat  love  like  an  appetite;  you  give  it  a  meal, 
and,  like  your  food,  you  don't  ever  want  to  talk 
about  it.  Come  over  here  and  give  me  your 
brotherly  kiss.  I'm  going  out  for  a  little  walk  down 
the  Quay  into  the  High  Street." 

161 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  kissed  her  obediently,  when  she  went  laugh- 
ing out  of  the  room. 

"He's  very  young,"  she  said  to  herself  all  the 
way  down  the  attic  stairs;  "he's  too  young,"  and  it 
was  comforting  to  think  that.  She  never  would  al- 
low herself  to  think  uncomfortable  thoughts,  they 
creased  the  smoothness  of  her  forehead,  they  added 
little  lines  to  her  eyes. 

"He's  too  young,"  said  she,  as  she  put  on  her 
hat,  "but  how  impetuous!"  At  the  hall  door  she 
repeated  it  once  more.  Then  she  stepped  out  on  to 
the  Quay. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

A  HISTORY  of  such  a  nature  as  this  must 
of  necessity  take  time  by  the  forelock,  re- 
counting only  those  incidents  which  are  es- 
sential to  the  whole. 

Of  all  the  eight  months  during  which  Dicky 
worked  at  the  house  on  Ballast  Quay,  only  the  main 
issue  can  be  regarded,  or  there  would  be  matter  in 
hand  for  more  volumes  than  one  would  have  pa- 
tience to  pursue. 

The  very  first  evening  when  he  visited  Mr.  Nibbs 
— an  evening  when  he  was  not  attending  the  art 
schools — he  formulated  the  idea  of  beginning  his 
work  upon  wood  blocks.  The  little  print-seller's 
love  for  his  prints,  the  tenderness  with  which  he 
handled  them,  the  gentle  way  in  which  he  pointed 
out  their  beauties  to  Dicky's  ready  eyes,  all  com- 
bined by  that  force  of  example  which  is  the  foster- 
mother  of  ambition  to  make  him  wish  to  work  in 
such  material  himself. 

In  that  little  room  with  the  bright  light  of  an  oil 
lamp  thrown  obliquely  on  the  table  and  concentrated 
on  to  the  print  through  a  round  glass  bowl  of  water, 
Dicky  found  the  little  man  at  work.  The  first  sight 

163 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  him  sitting  there  as  he  himself  stood  in  the  door- 
way, the  old  horn  spectacles  on  his  nose,  the  head 
bent  low  over  the  faded  print,  brought  home  to 
Dicky  the  love  in  Mr.  Nibbs  for  his  work.  At  that 
moment  he  envied  him,  and  it  was  that  envy  perhaps 
which  first  led  him  to  adopt  the  medium  of  engrav- 
ing for  himself. 

When  once  they  had  shaken  hands  and  Mr. 
Nibbs  had  made  all  enquiries  as  to  his  progress 
with  Monsieur  Marco  and  his  study  at  the  schools, 
the  little  man  settled  himself  back  again  in  his  chair, 
readjusted  his  spectacles,  brought  the  ray  of  light 
from  the  glass  bowl  on  to  that  part  of  the  print  on 
which  he  was  at  work  and  began  again.  For  some 
time  there  were  only  the  sudden  exhalations  of  his 
breath  to  break  the  silence,  while  Dicky  watched 
with  increasing  interest. 

"Why  doesn't  anyone  do  wood-engraving  now?" 
he  asked  suddenly. 

Mr.  Nibbs  looked  up. 

"Some  do,"  said  he,  "but  there  ain't  no  sale  for 
it.  It's  too  bold — people  don't  like  it.  They  can't 
appreciate  it  now.  They  like  etchings  if  they  like 
anything.  A  good  etcher'll  fetch  high  prices  in 
Bond  Street  with  the  big  dealers.  Just  a  few  does 
wood  engraving,  but  really  it's  a  lost  art.  Look  at 
Borrow's  tail-pieces — they  couldn't  do  simple  things 
like  that  now.  People  don't  think  it  worth  while  to 
be  simple,  it  seems  to  me.  They  like  colour  and  tons 

164 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  it  or  they  fancies  they  'aven't  got  their  money's 
worth.  Look  at  the  way  them  prints  of  Albert 
Moore  sell,  and  I  don't  think  much  of  him  myself." 

From  Mr.  Nibbs,  Dicky  learnt  all  that  Mr. 
Nibbs  knew  of  the  art  of  wood-engraving.  It  was 
not  much.  Truly  he  had  an  eye  for  quality.  He 
liked  a  bold  line;  he  liked  a  fine  line,  too.  But  be- 
yond the  mere  simple  rudiments  of  the  art,  it  was 
left  to  Dicky's  imagination  to  seize  upon  the  possi- 
bilities it  offered  to  him.  So  he  listened  to  all  the 
little  man  had  to  say  about  Diirer  and  Borrow  and 
Bartolozzi,  the  few  names  he  knew  well,  and  he 
watched  all  that  the  little  man  did  in  restoring  the 
prints  that  were  brought  into  his  shop.  Every 
evening  that  he  was  free  from  the  Polytechnic  he 
made  his  way  round  to  the  room  where  Mr.  Nibbs 
worked  far  into  the  night,  and  there  he  sat  with 
him  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  back  again  to  his 
attic  bed. 

One  evening  when  he  came  in,  Mr.  Nibbs  was 
deeply  engaged  upon  some  tricky  manipulation  with 
his  pen.  His  breath  was  held,  his  head  was  bent 
low,  and  all  his  features  were  screwed  up  in  the 
concentration  of  what  he  was  doing.  He  did  not 
look  up,  and  Dicky  came  quietly  to  his  side,  taking 
his  seat  in  the  chair  already  placed  out  for  him. 
When  it  was  finished,  the  little  print-seller  let  go  his 
breath  with  a  burst,  pushed  his  spectacles  on  to  his 
forehead,  and  sat  back  rubbing  his  eyes  with  a  red 

165 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

pocket  handkerchief  from  the  strain  of  his  exer- 
tions. 

"Poof!"  said  he,  then  looked  up  at  Dicky  if  possi- 
ble with  a  more  genial  expression  than  ever. 

"Well,  you're  gettin'  on,  my  boy,"  said  he; 
"you're  gettin'  on." 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Dicky. 

"How  do  I  know — well — I'll  tell  you.  A  gentle- 
man come  along  this  afternoon,  he  was  comin'  from 
the  other  side  of  the  river  across  to  the  Strand. 
Now,  the  ones  that  go  the  other  way  from  the 
Strand  they're  goin'  to  catch  a  train  at  Waterloo 
station,  and  they've  got  no  taste  at  all.  They  don't 
know  a  good  picture  from  a  bad'un — but  he  was 
comin'  the  other  way.  I  saw  him  stop  outside  the 
window,  and  presently  in  'e  comes.  'I  want  to  'ave 
a  look  at  that  picture,'  'e  says,  'the  water-colour 
you've  got  in  the  front.'  ' 

"Mine?"  exclaimed  Dicky,  and  from  a  quiet  pulse 
his  heart  suddenly  started  pounding  in  his  breast. 

"Yes — yours.  I  got  it  out  for  'im  and  'e  stood 
there  lookin'  at  it  for  five  minutes." 

"Did  he  say  anything?"  asked  Dicky. 

"Oh,  yes — after  a  few  minutes  'e  looked  up,  and, 
'What's  'e  call  it  "Fragrance"  for?'  says  he.  I  told 
'im  I'd  said  that  wasn't  the  name  for  it.  'Wot 
would  you  'ave  called  it?'  'e  says.  "Going  to  the 
Market,"  '  I  said — same  as  what  I  told  you.  'Well, 
you'd  'ave  been  all  wrong,'  'e  says.  'It'ud  only  'ave 

166 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

been  worth  thirty  bob  then,'  'e  says.  'That  title,'  'e 
says,  'is  worth  the  extry  quid.'  And  without  a 
word  'e  paid  it — I  did  it  up  for  'im  in  paper  and 
out  'e  went." 

T'Didn't  he  say  anything  more?"  said  Dicky. 
"Was  that  all?" 

Just  then  Emily  came  into  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Nibbs  turned  to  her  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  'E  ain't  satisfied,  my  dear,"  said  he.  "I  told 
'im  the  gentleman  paid  the  full  price  for  it,  but  'e 
ain't  satisfied." 

"I  only  wanted  to  know  if  he'd  said  he  liked  it," 
said  Dicky.  "That  was  all." 

"That's  all!"  Mr.  Nibbs  blew  his  nose,  an  action 
he  resorted  to  frequently  when  words  eluded  him. 
"Didn't  'e  buy  it?  Isn't  that  enough  for  you?  Do 
yer  think  'e  paid  two  pound  ten  and  didn't  like  it? 
Why,  a  picture  'as  to  be  a  masterpiece  in  the  Wa- 
terloo Bridge  Road  before  anyone'll  pay  two  pound 
ten  for  it.  You  don't  seem  to  see  what  'e's  done 
for  you." 

"What's  he  done?" 

"Why,  I  want  another  picture — don't  I?  And 
I'll  pay  the  same  price  for  it,  too." 

"Two  pounds  again!"  exclaimed  Dicky. 

"Yes,  two  pounds." 

Dicky  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was  true.  The 
great  iron  gates  that  lead  to  success  were  slowly 
opening  for  him.  He  could  almost  feel  their  weight 

167 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

giving  way  before  the  pressure  of  his  desire.  He 
wanted  to  dance  round  Mr.  Nibbs'  little  room.  He 
would  have  liked  to  kiss  Emily,  who  stood  there 
smiling  with  a  look  of  pride,  too,  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  ripping,  isn't  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "By  Jove, 
it  is  ripping!" 

It  was  not  only  the  sale  of  a  picture  or  the  pur- 
chase of  another  that  he  meant  by  this — it  was 
all  of  life,  the  joyous  knowledge  that  he  was  mak- 
ing his  own  destiny,  conquering  circumstance  and 
rising  above  the  surroundings  that  so  long  had  held 
him  down. 

"Which  one  do  you  want?"  he  asked.  "There's 
'The  Mysterious  Journey' — no — that's  not  good 
enough.  I  can  do  better  than  that.  I  never  got  it 
quite  there — the  figures  worried  me  too  much.  They 
won't  worry  me  soon,  though,  not  after  I've  been 
through  the  life  class.  I'll  paint  one  for  you,  Mr. 
Nibbs,  that's  what  I'll  do.  It's  packed  with  sub- 
jects here.  If  old  Marco'll  let  me  off  to-morrow, 
I'll  go  and  do  one  for  you." 

Dicky  took  his  day  off  without  asking,  for  the 
next  morning  Monsieur  Marco  went  up  to  town. 

He  patted  Dicky  on  the  back  as  he  left  him. 

"You  are  getting  on  first  class,"  said  he  cheer- 
fully. "Next  week  perhaps  if  I  see  still  more  im- 
provement I  will  let  you  paint  a  shipwreck — all  by 
yourself." 

168 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dicky  stood  on  the  steps  with  Madame  Marco 
and  watched  him  depart. 

"Isn't  he  just  sweet?"  said  she,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eyes.  She  had  seen  the  look  on  Dicky's  face 
as  he  listened  to  Monsieur  Marco's  promise,  and 
her  lips  were  twitching  to  laugh. 

"You'll  love  to  paint  a  shipwreck,  won't  you? 
Eh?  And  you'll  put  all  your  soul  into  it — won't 
you?  Eh?" 

Dicky's  face  had  become  so  serious  that  at  last 
she  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  may  kiss  me,"  said  she,  a  thing  she  had 
often  said  since  that  day  when  they  had  talked  to- 
gether in  the  studio,  and  Dicky  always  obeyed  be- 
cause she  was  Madame  Marco  and  the  five  shillings 
a  week  had  to  be  earned.  It  was  certainly  prefer- 
able to  fetching  Monsieur  Marco's  beer  at  the 
Crown  and  Thistle.  He  kissed  her  then,  and,  when 
he  had  done  it  once,  she  put  up  her  cheek  and  said, 
"The  other  side,"  all  of  which  they  saw  from  the 
front  bedroom  window  of  number  four.  Indeed, 
Mrs.  Weyburn  felt  the  blood  hot  in  her  cheeks  with 
shame,  for  Dicky  was  far  too  nice  a  boy,  she 
thought,  to  be  caught  by  that  minx  of  a  woman,  that 
Madame  Marco. 

It  was  this  day  that  Dicky  did  his  first  study  of 
the  dredger  lying  in  the  Thames  with  Limehouse 
Reach  spread  out  beyond  it.  He  called  it  "The 

169 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Scavenger"  then  and,  as  he  was  bringing  it  into 
the  house,  was  discovered  by  Madame  Marco. 

She  said  she  had  the  right  to  see  it  because  he  had 
been  wasting  her  husband's  most  valuable  time,  and, 
never  observing  that  constant  light  of  laughter  in  her 
eyes,  he  showed  it  her  in  doubtful  apprehension. 

She  took  it  to  the  window,  standing  it  where  the 
light  was  best,  and  then,  when  she  had  looked  at  it 
for  a  while,  turned  suddenly,  almost  with  anger  in 
her  face. 

"You  little  fool!"  she  said. 

Dicky  prepared  himself  for  the  announcement 
that  she  was  going  to  tell  Monsieur  Marco  how  he 
had  been  wasting  his  day. 

"Why  do  you  come  and  do  those  daubs  upstairs?" 
she  went  on.  "You  can  paint." 

"I  know  I  can,"  said  Dicky,  and  felt  a  lump  rise 
in  his  throat  because  he  knew  she  was  speaking 
from  conviction. 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Making  five  shillings  a  week  to  go  to  the  night 
schools,"  said  he. 

"Well,  never  let  Monsieur  Marco  know  you  can 
paint  a  thing  like  that,"  she  replied.  "He'd  turn 
you  out  of  the  house  if  he  did." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  influence  of  those  evenings  with  Mr. 
Nibbs  and  his  prints  was  not  long  in  bear- 
ing fruit  in  Dicky's  mind.  At  the  Poly- 
technic, he  bought  a  small  wood-engraver's  outfit, 
and,  long  after  Monsieur  Marco  and  the  household 
had  gone  to  bed,  would  sit  in  his  attic,  cutting  out 
the  first  wood-block  he  had  ever  done.  The  subject 
was  a  simple  one;  undoubtedly  the  influence  of  Bor- 
row and  his  tail-pieces  was  there.  It  is  the  hands 
of  the  great  men  that  lead  us  all  toward  great 
endeavour. 

A  barge  full-sail  was  the  picture  that  he  chose, 
a  barge  bending  the  turn  by  Woolwich  corner.  He 
had  made  a  sketch  of  it  in  pencil  only  a  few  days 
before.  Now,  with  infinite  labour  and  love  he  cut 
it  out  in  wood,  and,  never  mentioning  a  word  of  it 
to  Mr.  Nibbs,  took  it  up  to  the  school  when  it  was 
done.  From  the  printing  press  there  he  took  a 
pull  of  it  on  old  India  paper  in  black  ink,  and,  when 
he  saw  his  picture  visualised,  felt  all  the  delight  and 
excitement  of  a  child.  The  hours  seemed  endless 
before  he  could  take  it  the  next  evening  to  Mr. 
Nibbs. 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Anyone  more  observant  than  the  little  print- 
seller  would  have  known  from  his  manner  that 
Dicky  had  some  matter  on  his  mind.  Even  Emily, 
who  had  opened  the  door  to  him,  was  aware  that 
something  unusual  had  happened.  She  followed 
him  into  the  room  and  stood  there  waiting,  just  as 
she  waited  in  the  back  of  the  shop  for  the  errands 
she  had  to  run,  waiting  to  hear  what  it  was. 

When  a  suitable  opportunity  arose,  Dicky  at  last 
drew  the  print  out  of  his  pocket. 

"How  do  you  like  this?"  said  he,  and  threw 
it  down  casually  on  the  table,  as  though  he  had 
never  been  less  excited  over  anything  in  his  life. 

Mr.  Nibbs  took  it  up  and  looked  it  all  over.  His 
expression  was  more  that  of  a  dealer  than  a  lover  of 
the  work  itself.  But  then  Dicky  expected  that. 
Never,  in  the  wildest  moments  of  his  enthusiasm,  did 
he  ever  credit  Mr.  Nibbs  with  a  true  power  of  ap- 
preciation. He  was  just  a  little  print-seller  who 
loved  his  prints,  good  or  bad,  as  he  would  have 
loved  his  children. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  repeated  Dicky. 

The  little  man  looked  up. 

"Well — it  ain't  Borrow,"  said  he,  "  'cos  this  was 
never  one  of  Borrow's  subjects,  but  it's  on  old  pa- 
per, or  a  damned  good  imitation  of  it.  It's  bold,  I'll 
say  that  for  it;  it's  bold.  Where'd  you  pick  it  up?" 

"It's  mine,"  said  Dicky. 
172 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  supposed  that.  But  where'd  you 
pick  it  up;  where'd  you  buy  it?" 

"I  did  it  myself,"  said  Dicky,  as  quietly  as  he 
could,  but  he  felt  ready  to  burst  out  into  excited 
laughter.  He  had  deceived  Mr.  Nibbs ;  Mr.  Nibbs, 
who  had  been  handling  prints  half  his  life.  It  did 
not  prove  to  him  just  then  how  little  Mr.  Nibbs 
must  know  about  it.  His  mood  at  that  moment  was 
to  take  all  the  credit  to  himself.  He  had  only 
thought  it  was  not  a  wood-cut  by  Borrow,  because 
the  subject  was  not  one  that  Borrow  would  have 
chosen. 

"Knew  there  was  something  up,"  remarked 
Emily  from  the  background,  and,  having  waited 
long  enough  to  make  this  observation,  she  went  out 
of  the  room  to  household  duties  far  more  impor- 
tant than  these. 

And,  when  he  had  really  grasped  the  truth  of  it, 
Mr.  Nibbs  was  thoroughly  delighted.  He  rubbed 
his  glasses  clean  and  chuckled  over  the  matter  like 
a  jackdaw  with  a  stolen  trinket. 

"Well,  I'd  never  have  thought  it,  I'd  never  have 
guessed  it,"  he  kept  on  saying.  "You'll  take  to 
wood-cuts  now,  my  boy.  And  one  of  these  days, 
in  a  hundred  years  or  so,  there'll  be  some  fusty  old 
chap  like  myself  poring  over  a  rusty  old  print  and 
wondering  if  it's  a  Furlong,  a  genuine  Furlong." 

All  this  no  doubt  was  nonsense,  with  such  slen- 
der promise  as  the  engraving  he  held  in  his  hand. 

173 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

It  was  only  his  talk,  but  it  was  just  the  talk  that 
Dicky  needed  then  to  urge  him  on.  They  sat  to- 
gether till  late  into  the  night,  discussing  what  he 
should  do  next;  how  Mr.  Nibbs  would  frame  his 
prints  and  put  them  in  the  fore-front  of  the  win- 
dow, pushing  his  name  before  the  public  until  they 
came  to  buy  everything  he  did. 

That  was  a  great  evening,  one  that  Dicky  remem- 
bered for  many  a  long  day  to  come. 

"But  I'm  not  satisfied,"  he  said  as  he  was  going. 
They  neither  of  them  realised  the  colossal  impu- 
dence of  that.  They  neither  of  them  realised  how 
it  was  the  keynote  of  all  Dicky's  genius,  that  he 
never  reached  satisfaction  all  his  life  through. 

"Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Nibbs,  who  was  cheerful 
enough  to  be  satisfied  with  anything. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  I  ought  to  have  got  the 
sails  of  that  barge  in  the  colour  that  they  were. 
Why  should  you  limit  yourself  to  black  ink?" 

"They  all  did,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs.  "You  can't  get 
away  from  that." 

<TYes,  I  can,"  said  Dicky.  "I  can  make  two 
blocks;  print  the  first  in  black  ink  and  the  second 
with  just  the  sails  in  brown.  Why  shouldn't  I  do 
that?" 

"It's  never  been  done  before,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs; 
"never  to  my  knowledge.  Why  don't  you  colour 
your  prints  like  Bartolozzi  did?" 

"No,  I  am  going  to  print  them,"  said  Dicky. 
174 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"You  wait  and  see.  I'll  make  you  sit  up  when  you 
see  them." 

But  Mr.  Nibbs  was  already  sitting  up.  These 
ideas  were  revolutionary.  He  could  not  cast  his 
mind  forward  in  an  imagination  of  what  they  were 
going  to  lead  to.  And,  when  Dicky  had  gone,  he 
still  sat  on  in  his  chair  rubbing  his  spectacles  and 
saying  aloud  to  himself,  "But  Diirer  never  did  it, 
and  he  can't  beat  Diirer." 

Which  was  quite  true;  but,  though  you  may  not 
beat  a  master  at  his  job,  you  may  yet  become  mas- 
ter of  your  own. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

NOW  there  comes  another  stage,  another 
period  is  reached  in  Dicky's  development. 
It  would  seem  with  him,  at  least,  that 
Madame  Marco  with  all  her  French  ideas  about  love 
was  right.  Certain  it  was  that  it  played  a  mighty 
part  in  all  the  work  he  ever  did. 

The  two  pounds  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Nibbs 
for  his  picture  was  the  first  cause  of  it  all,  and  per- 
haps it  is  more  British  and  proper  to  regard  it 
rather  in  this  light  than  the  other.  Whichever  way 
you  take  it,  he  spent  that  money  in  a  journey  to 
Eckington  to  see  his  Dorothy. 

That  talk  with  Madame  Marco  in  the  studio  had 
set  his  mind  a-longing  back  to  the  days  when  they 
had  walked  the  countryside  together.  Pictures  of 
the  green  meadows  beside  the  Avon  filled  his  eyes 
at  night,  and,  though  the  leaves  were  fast  falling 
now,  he  felt  a  hunger  to  see  the  place  again,  even  to 
see  the  mill  where  he  had  spent  so  many  days  of 
tribulation  with  the  stern  conception  of  duty  which 
his  father  had  held  like  a  sword  above  his  head. 

The  remembrance  of  that  had  softened  much  with 
time.  He  even  looked  forward  to  the  prospect  of 

176 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

seeing  his  father  again.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his 
mind  but  that  he  would  be  interested  in  his  work 
now,  now  that  he  was  really  beginning  to  see 
success.  And  at  the  thought  of  Dorothy,  of  Doro- 
thy's arms  and  Dorothy's  kisses,  his  heart  came  up 
into  his  throat  and  every  sense  in  him  rose  up  to 
greet  the  first  light  of  that  day  when  they  should 
meet  again. 

With  Monsieur  Marco's  permission  he  had  writ- 
ten to  her  to  say  that  he  would  come,  begging  her 
to  be  up  early  that  morning  and  meet  him  by  the 
first  train  that  reached  Pershore  from  London.  To 
his  sister  Anne  he  sent  no  word.  Part  of  the  joy 
of  that  journey  was  the  thought  of  how  he  would 
surprise  them  at  home;  how  they  would  hear  the 
click  of  the  wicket  gate  that  stood  in  the  hedge  of 
laurels;  how  Anne  would  look  out  from  the  window 
and  see  him  coming  up  the  path  between  the  Mi- 
chaelmas daisies  which  then  would  be  in  bloom.  All 
the  way  down  in  the  train,  which  left  London  in 
grey  darkness,  speeding  through  the  country  into 
the  daybreak,  he  sat  in  the  corner  of  his  empty  car- 
riage, thinking  of  the  delight  of  all  the  hours  of 
that  dcy  which  lay  before  him. 

The  sun  was  well  up,  the  country  ablaze  with 
light  when  the  train  slowed  into  Pershore  station. 
Memories  began  fast  to  beset  him  here,  but  had  no 
hold  upon  his  mind  in  his  eagerness  to  see  his  Dor- 
othy. 

177 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

For  some  moments  before  his  arrival,  he  had 
stood  up  and  was  leaning  out  of  the  carriage  win- 
dow, and,  when  first  the  station  came  in  sight,  all 
the  pent-up  excitement  in  his  mind  fell  to  a  slow, 
sick  beating  of  his  heart.  It  was  empty,  empty  to 
him.  A  solitary  porter  stood  upon  the  platform 
waiting  the  train's  arrival  from  which,  at  that 
hour  of  the  morning,  he  expected  no  passengers  for 
Pershore. 

Dicky  stepped  down  from  his  carriage,  closing 
the  door.  The  porter  stared  at  him  and  the  train 
moved  on. 

"Have  you  seen  anything  of  a  lady  waiting  here 
for  this  train?"  Dicky  asked. 

The  porter  shook  his  head. 

"No  lady  hereabouts  this  morning,"  said  he. 

Dicky  turned  away.  Perhaps  she  had  been  late 
in  getting  up.  It  was  scarcely  seven  o'clock  then. 
She  might  be  on  the  road  and  he  would  meet  her. 
It  was  a  long  walk  from  Eckington.  He  turned 
away  out  of  the  station,  gathering  hope  to  himself 
and  setting  out  down  the  road  with  a  quick  step. 
Round  the  bend  of  every  corner  he  expected  to  find 
her  in  sight,  and,  the  nearer  he  drew  towards  Eck- 
ington, the  faster  fell  his  hopes  away. 

The  country  had  no  pleasure  for  him  then.  The 
pale  gold  to  which  the  willows  had  turned,  the 
warm  purple  of  the  oak-trees,  the  burning  orange 
of  the  beech,  they  filled  his  eyes,  but  never  reached 

178 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

his  heart.  Beauty  must  be  in  the  mind  of  a  man  to 
find  it,  and,  glorious  an  October  morning  though 
that  was,  Dicky  could  find  no  beauty  anywhere.  He 
thought  bitterly  how  Madame  Marco  was  quite 
right.  The  whole  world  was  beautiful,  he  knew 
that,  but,  in  the  bitter  disappointment  of  his  heart, 
he  could  not  find  it  so. 

There  was  also  an  ugly  apprehension  in  his  mind 
that  something  was  wrong.  Dorothy  was  sick,  or 
she  was  away;  and,  the  more  he  thought  upon 
what  it  might  be,  the  more  the  remembrance  of  Con- 
stance smote  upon  his  conscience.  By  the  time  he 
had  reached  Eckington  Bridge,  and  still  there  was 
no  Dorothy,  he  had  come  to  regard  her  absence  and 
this  nameless  apprehension  in  his  mind  as  a  just 
punishment  for  his  unfaithfulness.  Yet  there  was 
the  world,  and  he  was  in  it  and  of  it,  and  a  thousand 
times  he  had  expiated  his  folly  with  remorse,  but 
the  punishment  was  yet  to  come. 

As  he  thought  over  the  last  letters  she  had  writ- 
ten him,  it  began  to  force  itself  upon  his  mind  how 
there  had  been  a  faint  coldness  in  them,  a  greater 
distance  which  he  had  not  fully  realised  till  now. 

Witli  a  sickness  of  foreboding,  he  walked  up  to 
the  door  of  Mr.  Leggatt's  house,  knocked  and 
waited  with  the  rush  of  a  thousand  sensations  swell- 
ing in  his  mind.  The  door  at  last  opened,  and  Wil- 
frid Leggatt  stood  there  with  mouth  wide  open  and 
eyes  gazing  in  surprise. 

179 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Thought  you  were  in  London,"  said  he. 

"I've  just  come  down  for  the  day,"  replied  Dicky. 
"Didn't  Dorothy  tell  you?  I  wrote." 

Wilfrid  shook  his  head. 

"We're  at  breakfast.     Come  on  in." 

He  just  had  time  to  think  that  she  could  not  have 
received  his  letter  and  then  knew  that  the  door  of 
the  morning  room  had  been  swung  open.  Dorothy 
was  there.  She  was  sitting  the  other  side  of  the 
table.  Her  eyes  were  the  first  his  eyes  met,  and 
there  was  fear,  not  joy,  in  them.  Something  had 
happened.  He  knew  it  then.  The  smiting  of  his 
conscience  told  him  that  she  knew  of  Constance, 
and  he  felt  like  one  condemned,  not  questioning  how 
she  knew. 

"Here's  Dicky,"  said  Wilfrid.  He  was  all  awk- 
wardness, like  one  introducing  a  new  boy  to  the 
school.  And  Dicky  felt  much  as  an  interloper,  not 
knowing  which  way  to  turn.  In  a  heavy  silence  he 
shook  hands  with  everyone,  last  of  all  with  Doro- 
thy. Her  hand  was  damp  and  cold;  the  fingers  for 
that  instant  lay  loosely  with  aloofness  in  his  own. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Leggatt.  "Sit  down,  my 
boy;  have  you  had  your  breakfast?" 

"No,"  said  Dicky,  "not  yet" 

"Well,  sit  down  then  and  have  a  bit  of  something. 
There  are  some  eggs.  Give  him  an  e^g,  Wilfrid; 
pick  a  brown  one.  Well,  well,  fancy  low.  You've 
come  back,  I  suppose.  Has  it  bee  o  much  for 

180 


RICHARD   FURLONG 

you?  It's  a  hard  life,  a  great  struggle.  But  you 
took  it  on  your  own  shoulders,  didn't  you?  If  I've 
said  it  once,  I've  said  it  twenty  times  since  you  went 
away.  'That  boy,'  I've  said,  'that  boy  had  to  have 
his  fling,  but  he'll  come  back.'  And,  when  I've  said 
that  to  your  father  he's  just  nodded  his  head  and 
turned  off  to  something  else." 

For  a  moment  in  silence,  Dicky  drank  his  cup  of 
tea  and  ate  his  bread  and  butter  that  felt  like  leather 
on  the  dryness  of  his  tongue.  Then  he  looked  up. 

"I've  not  come  back,"  said  he.  "Only  just  for 
the  day.  I'm  going  to  London  again  early  to-mor- 
row morning.  Monsieur  Marco  gave  me  a  day  off, 
that's  all.  I'm  working.  I  wrote  and  told  Dorothy 
so." 

He  looked  across  the  table  at  her.  She  tried  to 
look  back  at  him. 

"Is  that  so,  Dorothy?"  demanded  her  father. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

He  cut  the  top  off  an  egg. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  tell  us  so?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  anything,"  said  he,  then 
having,  as  he  imagined,  successfully  covered  his 
retreat,  he  turned  to  Dicky.  "Well,  this  is  better 
than  I  expected,"  he  remarked,  "and  who's  this 
Monsieur  Marco?  Marco  what?" 

"Just  Marco,"  said  Dicky;  "he's  a  painter."  He 
tried  to  call  him  an  artist,  but  failed. 

181 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"What  sort  of  a  painter,  a  house  painter?" 

"No,  he  paints  pictures.  I  work  in  his  studio  and 
go  to  the  life  classes  at  the  night  schools  in  the 
evening." 

Mr.  Leggatt  nodded  his  head.  Once  he  had  met 
an  artist,  and  often  he  had  heard  of  the  lives  they 
led. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by — life  classes?" 

"Drawing  from  the  model." 

"Plaster  casts  and  things  like  that,  I  suppose." 

"No — people — models — the  life  class." 

"What?     Not ?" 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  what  he  meant, 
but  they  all  understood.  In  a  moment  of  exas- 
peration Dicky  looked  up  at  the  narrow  face,  the 
close  set  eyes  that  were  questioning  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "the  nude." 

Mr.  Leggatt  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  must  be  going  in  for  prayers,"  said  he.  He 
folded  his  napkin  with  great  precision.  There  was 
such  a  lot  he  could  have  said,  but  it  wanted  only  five 
minutes  before  the  school  opened,  and  he  felt  that  if 
he  said  it  in  brief  it  would  lose  half  its  importance. 
But  at  the  door  he  turned.  He  could  not  resist  it. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  man  must  be. very  sure  of  being 
a  great  artist  before  he  begins  playing  about  in  life 
classes,"  he  remarked.  "I  call  it  shocking  myself. 
I  never  could  see  any  beauty  in  nakedness.  Well — 
I  shall  see  you  again  I  suppose  before  you  go  back, 

182 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

but  you  think  it  over  a  bit.  That  sort  of  life  can 
lead  to  no  good.  Come  along  to  prayers,  Wilfrid. 
Finish  your  egg,  my  boy,  and  have  another  if  you 
want  it." 

He  said  this  in  great  kindness  of  tone  and  spirit. 
He  always  found  that  kindness  did  a  great  deal  of 
good  with  boys,  but  he  believed  that  they  should  be 
thoroughly  humiliated  first. 

Nothing  he  had  said,  however,  had  humiliated 
Dicky.  Indeed  that  kindness  of  tone  had  only  stung 
him  to  greater  resentment.  Directly  the  door  had 
closed,  he  laid  down  his  spoon. 

"Hadn't  I  better  go?"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Leggatt  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Stay  and  talk  to  Dorothy,"  said  she.  "I'm  go- 
ing upstairs,  and  I  think  she's  got  something  to  tell 
you." 

Again  his  heart  fell,  for  there  was  an  ominous 
sound  in  those  words.  He  knew  it  could  not  be 
Constance  now.  It  was  something  else  and  some- 
thing worse  than  that.  He  waited  until  Mrs.  Leg- 
gatt had  gone,  then,  quickly,  eagerly,  hopefully, 
he  stretched  out  his  hand  across  the  table.  She  took 
it  limply  and  reluctantly  in  her  own. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  thickly.  "What  is  it 
you've  got  to  tell  me?" 

She  gazed  at  him  beseechingly,  and  with  that 
look,  appealing  to  him,  he  felt  all  the  tenderness  for 
her  return,  felt  all  the  weight  of  his  own  folly. 

183 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I've  got  something  I  must  tell  you  first,"  said  he. 
"It's  hanging  on  my  mind,  and  I  shall  be  miserable 
until  I've  got  it  off.  Yours  can't  be  like  mine,  Dor- 
rie;  let  me  tell  you  first." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously;  asked  him  what  it 
was,  struggling  in  her  mind  against  that  power  of 
his  influence  which  dimly  was  returning  now  across 
the  months  of  absence. 

But  he  could  not  say  it  straightway.  He  must 
tell  her  first  how  much  through  all  this  time  he  had 
kept  the  spirit  of  his  love  for  her.  Now  he  was 
holding  her  hand,  still  cold  and  listless  in  the  hot 
pressure  of  his  own. 

He  thought  then,  as  he  came  in  gradual  nearness 
to  his  confession,  how  never  had  a  man  been  placed 
as  he,  to  tell  of  his  folly  to  the  woman  whom  he 
swore  he  loved.  How  could  she  ever  believe  him 
when  she  knew?  Where  was  the  truth  or  the  logic 
of  it  if  she  asked  to  swear  to  love  and  in  a  breath 
to  own  to  heartless  folly?  Experience  had  not 
taught  him  then  how  many  a  man  is  brought  to  such 
a  predicament.  He  thought  himself  alone  that  he 
should  hurt  the  thing  he  loved,  and  did  not  know 
the  world  was  full  of  such  anomaly. 

At  last  it  came  when,  with  head  bent  down  and 
hidden  in  his  hands  and  hers,  he  told  her  of  the  thing 
that  shamed  him.  There  was  little  or  no  excuse  to 
make.  The  overwhelming  suddenness  of  it,  and  all 
the  vileness  of  men,  she  must  know  that  of  herself. 

184 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

No  blame  he  laid  on  Constance.  Whether  Dorothy 
could  understand  it  or  not,  Constance  he  praised.  It 
was  her  idea  of  life.  She  had  lived  up  to  it.  Only 
he  had  fallen;  for  at  least  there  had  been  time  for 
choice,  but  his  blood  was  hot  and  he  had  chosen. 
She  must  judge  him  as  she  thought  best,  but,  above 
all,  he  loved  her. 

For  some  moments  silence.  He  kept  his  face  still 
hidden,  then  at  last  looked  up  for  what  she  had  to 
say.  Her  whole  expression  had  changed.  There 
was  no  fear  but  satisfaction  now.  It  leapt  to  his 
mind  to  believe  her  understanding  was  so  great  that 
she  had  seen  the  pity  of  his  folly,  but  would  not  see 
its  shame. 

"Dorrie !"  he  exclaimed. 

She  freed  a  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  head. 

"Poor  old  Dicky,"  she  said  gently.  "I  always 
thought  when  you  went  away  you'd  be  like  that. 
IVe  thought  it  all  these  months.  I  know  you  think 
you  care.  I'm  sure  you've  suffered,  in  a  way. 
You've  got  so  vivid  an  imagination.  You've 
thought  it  would  hurt  me  when  I  knew.  But  I've 
expected  it  ever  since  you  went  to  London.  And  I 
think  it's  dear  of  you  to  tell  me.  I  can't  really  think 
why  you  did." 

"Why,  because  I  love  you,"  said  he. 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"No,  no,  you  imagine  that,"  she  replied.  "IVe 
known  that,  too.  When  you  gave  up  the  Mill,  I 

185 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

knew  we  should  never  marry.  Didn't  I  tell  you  so, 
even  then." 

"But,  Dorrie,  we  shall  marry!" 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  She  tried  to  smile 
once  more  to  carry  off  what  she  must  tell,  but  it 
was  weak  and  unconvincing. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you 
mean  that's  what  you're  going  to  tell  me?" 

"Yes." 

"But  why?  Won't  they  let  you?  Do  they  think 
I'm  no  good?" 

"No,  it  isn't  that,  Dicky.  Father  doesn't  think 
much  of  your  chances,  as  you  can  see,  but  it  isn't 
that." 

He  sat  and  stared  at  her,  stared  with  frightened 
eyes.  His  throat  was  dry,  his  mouth  parched.  He 
tried  to  moisten  it  with  his  tongue. 

"Some  one  else?"  he  whispered. 

Her  head  acknowledged  it. 

"You're  going  to  be  married?" 

"Yes.  He  asked  me  only  the  day  before  yester- 
day, the  day  before  I  got  your  letter.  And  I'd 
known,  t'd  guessed  all  that  was  happening  to  you. 
Father  knows  what  an  artist's  life  in  London  is  like. 
He  knew  an  artist  once.  But  he  didn't  persuade  me. 
I  knew  myself,  and  now — you  come  and  tell  me. 
We  should  never  have  been  married,  Dicky,  you 
know  that,  not  after  you  left  the  Mill." 

He  stood  up  slowly  to  his  feet,  looked  one  way 
186 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  then  another.  At  last  he  walked  to  the  door. 
A  woman  is  quick  to  suspect  when  she  is  a  fool. 
Dorothy  stretched  out  a  hand  across  the  table. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  say  good-bye?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  at  the  door. 

"Does  he  know,  this — this  man?"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Good-bye,"  said  he. 


13 


CHAPTER   XX 

WHEN  he  had  left  the  house  and  was  out 
once  more  in  the  street,  Dicky  turned 
automatically  towards  Bredon  Hill  and 
his  home.  He  was  not  walking  slowly,  yet  there 
was  an  absence  of  conscious  decision  in  his  move- 
ments. His  mind  was  labouring  under  an  acute 
strain,  and,  for  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile  along  the 
road,  was  incapable  of  any  thought  more  definite 
than  the  contemplation  of  the  mere  fact  of  what  he 
had  just  heard.  Dorothy  no  longer  cared  for  him. 
If  any  other  idea  presented  itself  to  his  conscious- 
ness in  a  concrete  form,  it  was  that  the  retribution 
had  its  aspect  of  justice. 

These  two  thoughts  revolved  ceaselessly  and  be- 
wilderingly  before  him  as  he  walked.  He  tried  to 
steady  his  brain,  to  catch  hold  of  some  trivial  com- 
monplace upon  which  to  pivot  the  unsteady  balance 
of  his  mind.  In  a  vain  effort,  he  endeavoured  to 
recall  the  people  in  London  and  said  their  names, 
first  one  and  then  another,  to  himself.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  visualise  them.  They  refused  to  stay, 
were  only  names,  vanishing  as  quickly  from  his 
thoughts  as  they  had  come.  All  that  remained  be- 

188 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

fore  him  was  Dorothy,  Dorothy  plighted  to  some 
other  man,  Dorothy  no  longer  caring  for  him,  and 
himself,  destitute  of  love,  alone  in  his  remorse, 
adrift  upon  a  sea  of  bitterness  from  which  no  land 
of  promise  was  in  sight. 

At  a  turning  of  the  road  the  figure  of  a  man  pre- 
sented itself  before  him,  and  for  the  first  time  his 
mind  steadied  as  he  recognised  the  figure  of  old 
Angel,  the  shepherd,  making  his  way  towards  his 
flocks  on  Bredon  Hill.  Yet  this  served  only  to 
bring  back  memories  in  a  mocking  crowd,  each 
clamouring  for  recognition.  It  was  Mr.  Angel  who 
had  met  them  that  Sunday  morning  when  first  they 
had  realised  the  human  element  of  passion  in  their 
love,  when  the  whole  world  was  swimming  before 
their  eyes.  He  remembered  so  well  how  the  old 
shepherd  had  talked  on  unceasingly,  just  when  they 
themselves  were  past  all  utterance  of  words.  It  was 
because  of  what  he  had  felt  that  morning,  that  he 
had  spoken  to  his  father  of  his  eagerness  to  be  mar- 
ried. Now !  His  breath  was  deep,  long-drawn,  out 
of  the  bitterness  of  his  heart. 

At  the  sound  of  Dicky's  footsteps,  Mr.  Angel  had 
turned,  ready  to  welcome  any  companion  on  the 
road.  When  he  saw  who  it  was,  the  boy  whom 
he  had  carried  on  his  back  when  death  was  creeping 
at  their  heels,  that  same  little  boy  at  the  door  of 
manhood  now,  he  stood  motionless  in  mute  astonish- 
ment. 

189 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Master  Dicky!"  cried  he  at  last,  when  speech 
had  come  to  him.  "Well  now,  there  now!"  It 
was  a  remark  in  true  keeping  with  the  standard  of 
Mr.  Angel's  intelligence,  bringing  almost  a  smile 
to  Dicky's  lips. 

"Hav'ee  come  home  for  good,  now?"  he  asked. 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"Just  for  the  day,"  said  he.  "I'm  staying  at  the 
Mill  to-night  and  going  back  to  London  to-mor- 
row." 

Mr.  Angel  nodded  at  least  half  a  dozen  times.  If 
that  were  so,  then  the  young  gentleman  was  in  a  bet- 
ter grace  with  his  father  than  he  had  been  led  to 
understand.  But  that  was  none  of  his  business, 
wherefore  his  head  kept  nodding  till  the  thought 
had  sluggishly  passed  from  his  mind  and  he  was 
safe  from  any  fear  of  speaking  of  it. 

"Are'ee  goin'  that  way  now?"  he  asked. 

"I  am.    You're  going  up  to  the  hills,  I  suppose?" 

"About  that,"  replied  the  shepherd. 

So  they  walked  together,  and,  till  the  first  turn- 
ing of  the  road,  in  silence. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  'ee,  Master  Dicky " 

the  old  man  began  presently. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  You  were  coming  from 
Little  Cumberton.  Have  you  seen  my  sister  lately?" 

"I  have  now,  beginning  this  autumn  she's  been 
times  again  with  that  gentleman  of  hers  up  on  the 
hillside  there  above  Woolas  Hall.  But  'tis  your 

190 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

mistake,  Master  Dicky;  I  was  not  coming  from  Lit- 
tle Cumberton  that  day.  Look  you,  I'd  been  to 
Elmly  Castle.  'Twas  there  I'd  be  comin'  from  no 
doubt  when  I  met  you  and  Miss  Dorothy  by  the 
hedge." 

Until  they  reached  the  Mill,  the  old  shepherd 
did  his  utmost  to  recall  that  morning,  and  by  noth- 
ing he  could  say  was  Dicky  able  to  distract  his  mind 
from  the  subject  he  seemed  determined  to  dwell 
upon.  It  was  with  no  little  relief  that  he  turned 
aside  at  last  through  the  open  gate  as  their  ways 
parted  and  walked  down  the  sloping  meadow  to  the 
Mill  house. 

His  steps  were  quicker,  but  self-conscious  now. 
For  the  moment,  Dorothy  and  the  desolation  of  his 
mind  retreated  before  the  sensation  of  sudden  ap- 
prehension. He  was  about  to  see  his  father  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  run  away  from  home,  and, 
with  the  mood  that  now  was  mastering  him,  it 
seemed  there  might  be  retribution  here  as  well. 

In  those  six  months  that  he  had  been  away  he 
had  forgotten  nothing  of  his  father's  character. 
Yet  judgment  was  warped  in  him  by  his  knowledge 
of  himself.  He  was  conscious  even  of  eagerness  to 
see  them  all  a^ain;  was  preparing  himself  for  that 
moment  when  his  father  must  see  in  his  outstretched 
hand  that  there  was  gladness  in  him  to  be  home 
once  more.  For,  as  he  came  down  the  sloping  or- 
chard beneath  the  apple  trees  and  saw  the  grey  roof 

191 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  the  Mill  house  spread  with  its  bright-green 
patches  of  moss;  when  his  eyes  had  taken  in  the 
familiar  waters  rushing  by  the  weir,  the  friendly 
willow  trees  calling  back  all  the  hours  of  his  child- 
hood, he  knew  that  the  meaning  of  home  was 
deeper-seated  in  the  heart  than  ever  his  mind  had 
been  aware  of. 

With  his  pulse  rising  again  to  a  quicker  measure, 
he  went  round  to  the  front  door,  that  same  door  at 
which  Christina,  his  mother,  had  taken  him  from 
the  shepherd's  arms  while  death  was  waiting  for  him 
at  the  gate,  then,  when  his  hesitation  had  passed, 
he  knocked.  The  sound  of  his  rapping  echoed 
along  the  passage  of  the  broad  hall  within.  He 
could  picture  his  sister  Anne,  stopping  from  her  du- 
ties to  listen,  for  a  moment  standing  still  to  wonder 
who  it  was.  At  that  hour  of  the  morning  his  father 
would  be  working  in  the  Mill  where  the  noise  of  the 
tireless  wheel  would  drown  all  sounds  beside. 

He  waited  on  the  doorstep  listening  to  it  then. 
The  years  might  never  have  gone  by,  everything  in 
that  moment  might  have  been  just  the  same  as  when 
he  was  a  little  boy,  for  the  splashing  of  the  water, 
the  dull  hum  of  the  revolving  machinery,  all  were 
pitched  on  the  same  unchangeable  note. 

A  sensation  that  he  had  forfeited  something  of 
this  when  he  had  left  the  Mill  deterred  him  from 
opening  the  door  before  him  and  walking  into  the 
house.  It  remained  with  them  to  whom  in  every 

192 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sense  of  the  word  it  was  still  home,  it  remained 
with  them  to  give  him  the  freedom  of  it  once  more, 
and,  with  the  desolate  isolation  in  which  it  seemed 
he  was  then,  he  desired  nothing  more  earnestly. 

Here  was  indeed  the  return  of  the  Prodigal,  yet 
when  he  thought  of  himself  as  such  pride  denied  the 
perfect  similarity.  He  had  not  found  failure  in  the 
world.  He  was  drawing  near  to  success.  Two  pic- 
tures he  had  sold,  moreover  there  was  work  for  him 
to  do  to  which  he  must  return.  In  but  one  sense 
alone  was  his  case  analogous.  He  looked  for  wel- 
come to  cheer  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  so  that 
when  at  last  the  door  did  open,  and  his  sister  Anne 
was  standing  before  him  in  silent  amazement,  he 
took  her  suddenly  in  his  arms  and  crushed  her  to 
him. 

When  at  last  she  gained  her  freedom  and  held 
him  at  arm's  length  the  better  to  regard  him,  she 
found  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  his  lip  was 
quivering,  more  manfully  now,  but  with  just  that 
same  expression  which  he  used  to  wear  when  he  was 
a  little  boy.  This  was  not  merely  the  delight  of 
coming  home.  With  some  of  that  instinct  common 
to  women  and  exaggerated  as  it  had  been  in  her 
mother,  Anne  knew  that  he  was  in  trouble.  In  a 
moment  her  heart  was  up  to  help  him.  She  closed 
the  door  behind  them,  anticipating  iiis  need  to  be 
alone,  and,  putting  an  arm  on  his  shoulder,  she 
brought  him  to  the  dining  room. 

193 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

There  for  a  moment  he  stood  looking  about 
him,  at  the  familiar  furniture,  the  same  wall  paper, 
the  chair  his  mother  had  always  occupied — empty 
now  as  it  had  always  been  since  her  death.  Then,  as 
he  gazed  at  the  place  he  knew  so  well,  something  in 
the  strength  of  his  reserve  snapped  in  twain.  He 
sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and,  throwing  his 
arms  upon  the  table,  leant  forward,  bursting  into 
tears. 

Anne  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant.  The  pathos  of 
his  sudden  and  unexpected  return  wrung  her  heart, 
brought  from  her  the  deepest  pity,  the  warmest 
emotions  of  which  her  nature  was  possessed.  He 
had  failed.  The  world  had  beaten  him.  The  mother 
that  is  in  every  woman  came  out  triumphant  in  her 
to  such  appeal  as  this.  He  had  come  home  to  ad- 
mit his  discomfiture;  she  could  think  of  no  other 
meaning  in  his  tears  than  this. 

"My  poor  old  Dicky,"  she  whispered,  "but  I'm 
glad  to  have  you  back.  It's  been  horrid  without 
you." 

So  she  murmured  her  sympathy  in  his  ears,  gentle 
words  that  were  like  an  ointment  on  the  burning 
pain  of  his  wounded  heart.  And  all  the  time  his 
head  was  buried  in  his  arms,  until  he  realised  that 
she  did  not  understand.  Then,  with  red  eyes  and 
tears  he  brushed  away  in  shame,  he  looked  up. 

"I've  not  come  back,"  said  he;  "I'm  not  beaten. 
I'd  go  starving  before  I'd  say  that.  But  I'm  not 

194 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

near  starving.  I've  got  work  to  do  and  I'm  selling 
my  pictures." 

"Then  why?"  she  asked. 

"I  came  back  to  see  you  all  here,  to  see — Dor- 
othy and — and  I've — seen  her." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair;  walked  to  the  window, 
standing  there  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets 
until  he  found  her  at  his  side  again. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  he  asked.  "Couldn't  you 
have  done  something?" 

She  shook  her  head  to  convey  her  ignorance  of 
what  he  meant;  but  she  knew  by  then.  A  month 
before  she  had  seen  Dorothy  on  the  road  with  one 
of  the  two  masters  at  her  father's  school.  Thinking 
nothing  of  it  then,  it  came  back  to  her  with  illumi- 
nation now. 

"What  has  she  said?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her,  every  word  embittered  by  what  he 
was  suffering,  yet  none  accusing  Dorothy.  She  would 
have  let  him  know;  in  time  she  would  have  let  him 
know.  She  had  never  believed  in  him,  that  was  the 
truth  of  it.  The  waiting  had  seemed  too  long,  and 
then,  what  chance  has  a  man  when  he  is  not  there 
to  protect  his  own?  Anne  had  promised,  his  friend 
Mr.  Hollom  had  promised  too;  but  what  could  they 
have  done?  Hfc  laid  a  hand  wearily  on  her  shoul- 
der as  they  stood  there  together  at  the  window.  He 
did  not  blame  her.  It  was  his  luck.  He  thanked 

195 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

God  without  conviction  that  he  had  work  he  could 
return  to. 

"But  I  don't  care  now!"  he  exclaimed.  "There's 
something  gone  out  of  it.  I  know  she  was  no  help, 
I  know  she  didn't  understand,  never  understood  one 
of  the  things  I  ever  tried  to  do,  but  there's  some- 
thing gone  out  of  it.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  try 
now." 

And  here,  without  thinking  it,  was  he  echoing  all 
the  beliefs  of  Madame  Marco  with  her  French  ideas 
of  life.  It  is  preposterous  in  this  country  to  con- 
ceive how  such  ideas  as  these  might  be  true;  yet 
there  was  Dicky  Furlong  an  example  of  them,  find- 
ing the  incentive  driven  out  of  life  by  the  mere 
breaking  of  a  woman's  word. 

"Don't  say  that,  Dicky !"  Anne  begged  of  him. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  say  it?  What  should  make  me 
care?  What's  there  left  to  work  for?" 

It  was  inspiration  or  it  was  Divine  Providence 
with  Anne,  for  hers  was  no.t  the  nature  to  grasp 
the  deeper  verities  of  life;  but  now  she  took  his  arm 
and,  because  she  found  it  was  the  thing  to  say,  de- 
clared that  there  was  the  work  itself  to  work  for. 
Divine  Prov'dence  it  must  have  been,  for  even  now 
she  never  contemplated  a  future  for  Dicky,  or  real- 
ised that  there  could  be  a  future  for  an  artist  at  all. 
Yet  this  was  the  word  his  courage  needed  then.  In 
the  depths  of  his  pockets  his  hands  clenched  tighter, 
his  jaws  set  firmer  as  he  looked  into  her  face. 

196 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"What  made  you  say  that?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.     She  did  not  know. 

"Because  you're  right.  There's  the  work  itself. 
It  may  be  all  for  nothing,  too;  but  that's  not  sure 
till  it's  proved.  There're  those  coloured  wood-cuts, 
there's  something  in  them.  Why,  I've  only  just  be- 
gun, haven't  I?" 

Then  the  despair  of  it  flung  back  upon  him  again. 
How  much  easier  it  would  have  been  with  Dorothy 
caring  for  him  still!  How  eagerly  he  would  have 
returned  on  the  morrow  with  fresh  energy  to  paint 
the  monotony  of  Monsieur  Marco's  skies  and  seas! 
Now,  indeed,  there  was  still  the  work  itself,  but  the 
drudgery  of  those  hours  in  Monsieur  Marco's  ate- 
lier faced  him  with  an  overwhelming  depression. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  the  night,  Anne,"  he  said  at 
length.  "Can  I  have  my  old  room?" 

"You  can  have  anything  you  like,"  said  she. 

He  looked  at  her  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  think  the  pater'll  say?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  does  he  say  about  my  going?" 

"He  never  speaks  about  it." 

"Never?" 

"Not  a  word." 

It  was  in  the  silence  that  fell  upon  them  then  that 
Dicky  heard  the  slam  of  a  door,  the  door  leading 
from  the  house  into  the  Mill.  The  sounds  of  foot- 
steps that  followed  were  another  note  that  had  not 

197 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

altered  with  the  years.  So  many  times  in  apprehen- 
sion or  in  anger  he  had  waited  for  them  before. 
Now  it  was  with  confused  sensations,  for  one  instant 
in  pleased  expectancy,  the  next  in  nervous  dread. 
Nearer  they  came  until  they  stopped  before  the 
door.  The  handle  turned  with  its  old,  accustomed 
squeak.  Dicky  remembered  that  squeak  so  well  as 
to  expect  it,  and  then  the  door  was  open,  his  father 
was  standing  on  the  threshold,  and  Dicky  had  lost 
his  presence  of  mind.  The  picture  he  had  framed 
for  himself  of  their  meeting  was  now  confronted  by 
the  moment  itself,  when  nothing  was  happening  as 
he  had  conceived  it. 

For  a  while  they  all  stood  there  in  silence,  then 
Mr.  Furlong  entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

IT  was  quite  true,  as  Anne  had  said:  all  those 
six  months  had  gone  by  and  over  Dicky's 
absence  Mr.  Furlong  had  maintained  un- 
yielding silence.  He  had  never  mentioned  Dicky's 
name.  That  he  had  thought  of  him  often  both  with 
affection  and  with  resentment  may  readily  be  sup- 
posed. That  he  had  been  hurt,  and  to  the  quick  of 
his  emotions,  may  easily  be  imagined,  too.  Yet  in 
all  this  time  of  silence,  when  he  had  brooded  often 
enough  upon  Dicky's  sudden  departure,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  been  partly  responsible 
for  it  himself. 

On  his  knees  often  at  night,  where  no  sense  of 
humour  ever  illuminated  his  thoughts,  he  had  asked 
to  understand  this  burden  of  disappointment  that 
had  been  placed  upon  him.  Again  and  again  he  had 
prayed  that  in  good  time  Dicky  might  realise  the 
folly  of  his  ambitions  and  return  repentant  to  the 
Mill. 

Repentance  he  must  have,  repentance  meekly  of- 
fered and  in  all  humility.  With  that  he  would  have 
taken  Dicky  back  in  a  true  joy  of  heart  to  his  arms, 
killed  for  him  the  fatted  calf  and  made  festivity  for 

199 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  return  of  his  own  authority  in  fervent  and  ear- 
nest belief  that  it  was  for  the  return  of  his  son. 

Seeing  him  there  before  him  then,  Mr.  Furlong's 
first  thought  was  that  his  prayers  had  at  last  been 
answered.  Dicky  had  learnt  the  folly  of  his  ambition 
and  in  secret  his  heart  went  out  to  him  in  gladness. 
But  to  Dicky  and  to  Anne,  who,  in  that  moment  of 
silence,  watched  him  as  he  stood  beside  the  door, 
the  only  light  in  his  eyes  was  that  of  stern  amaze- 
ment. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked. 

And  those  words  were  interpreted  in  his  look,  yet 
were  no  interpretation  of  his  mind.  They  could  not 
see,  these  two,  how  all  his  gladness  he  was  holding 
back  until  that  moment  when  Dicky,  admitting  his 
defeat,  should  place  himself  upon  the  generosity  of 
his  mercy.  Then  he  was  prepared  to  be  generous 
indeed,  and  all  his  heart  was  yearning  for  that  mo- 
ment when  he  could  give  it  rein. 

Receiving  no  answer  to  his  first  question,  he  put 
it  more  plainly  still. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked. 

It  even  seemed  to  him  that  in  all  fairness  he  was 
giving  Dicky  his  chance.  If  he  had  failed,  there 
was  his  opportunity  to  say  so  then. 

"I've  come  back  to  see  you,"  said  Dicky  simply. 
This  was  his  father's  house.  He  knew  it  was  his 
no  longer.  Even  in  Mr.  Furlong's  eyes  he  realised 
he  had  forfeited  that,  and  there  was  humility  in  his 

200 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

voice.  But  the  answer  was  not  that  which  had  been 
expected  of  him. 

"Come  back  to  see  me,  have  you?"  said  his  father 
slowly.  "What  do  you  want  to  see  me  about?" 

Could  he  be  giving  him  a  more  honest  chance 
than  this?  He  had  failed.  It  was  his  duty  to  his 
elders  to  be  the  first  to  admit  it,  admit  it  freely 
without  question  to  his  aid.  Yet  here  he  was  giving 
him  all  assistance. 

"About  nothing,"  replied  Dicky;  "just  to  see  you 
and  Anne  and — the  place  again,  that's  all." 

What  did  this  mean?  Had  he  failed  and  was  he 
too  ashamed  to  admit  it?  Then  that  shame  must 
be  overcome  and  by  the  true  spirit  of  repentance. 
So  much,  at  least,  was  due  to  him  as  a  father.  He 
crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  there  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"If  only  he  knew,"  he  thought,  "if  only  he  real- 
ised the  love  and  forgiveness  I'm  longing  to  hold 
out  to  him." 

"So  you've  just  come  to  see  us?"  said  he,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  keep  the  tone  of  irony  from  his 
voice.  "And  how  long  are  we  going  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  your  company?" 

The  spirit  in  Dicky  was  too  numbed  as  yet. 
Retribution  was  pursuing  him  at  every  turn.  At 
every  turn  he  felt  the  bitter  justice  of  it. 

"I  was  just  going  to  stay  till  to-morrow,"  said  he 
201 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

meekly,  "if  I  might  have  the  bed  made  up  in  my 
old  room." 

"Oh,  you  were  going  back  to-morrow.  Are  Anne 
and  Mr.  Hollom  still  keeping  you  in  cash,  then?" 

"Father !"  exclaimed  Anne,  but  said  no  more.  His 
eyes,  bright  with  a  terrifying  anger,  had  driven  her 
to  silence. 

"I'm  not  taking  money  from  anyone,"  said  Dicky 
quietly. 

"Really.  Do  you  want  me  to  suppose  that  you're 
making  your  own  living?" 

"Yes." 

"How?  What  work  has  anybody  found  you 
capable  of  doing?" 

"Painting." 

He  said  it  with  intense  quietness.  Perhaps  the 
absolute  triumph  of  it  was  all  the  greater  for  that; 
greater  because  he  had  not  sought  it.  Yet  even  then, 
Mr.  Furlong  could  not  believe  that  his  instinct  had 
been  so  completely  at  fault. 

"Painting  pictures?"  said  he. 

"Yes." 

Then  he  had  not  failed!  He  had  come  back  in 
triumph,  and  to  the  unhappy  man  it  seemed  that 
he  had  come  back  to  flaunt  it  in  his  face,  to  laugh 
at  his  father's  discomfiture.  All  the  anger  then 
that  had  been  in  his  eyes  came  rushing,  uncontrolled, 
to  his  lips. 

"And  you  expect  a  welcome,  do  you?"  said  he, 
202 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

with  a  rising  voice.  "You  run  away  from  home, 
you  fling  all  my  authority,  all  the  love  I  have  given 
you,  all  the  duty  you  owe  me,  you  fling  them  in  my 
face,  and  when  my  back  is  turned,  when  the  house  is 
asleep  and  no  one  is  looking,  you  sneak  away  to  a 
life  in  London  which,  after  what  you  said  that  Sun- 
day to  me  about  marrying  Dorothy  Leggatt,  I  have 
no  desire  to  enquire  into.  And  now  you  come  back 
expecting  a  welcome,  my  lord,  expecting  his  bed  to 
be  made,  his  servants  to  wait  upon  him  just  as  he 
pleases." 

He  paused  in  his  anger.  The  picture  he  was 
painting  had  grown  so  vivid  in  his  mind  that  words 
choked  him  in  their  utterance.  He  pointed  with 
shaking  finger  to  the  door. 

"You  can  go  out  of  this  house  the  way  you  came !" 
he  cried,  and,  knowing  that  his  temper  was  beyond 
his  control,  it  angered  him  the  more.  "You  gave 
up  all  right  to  be  treated  as  a  son  of  mine,"  he 
shouted,  "the  night  you  left  this  house!  Never  ex- 
pect a  welcome  from  me  again,  for  this  is  the  sort 
of  welcome  you'll  get." 

In  trembling  silence  Dicky  stood  watching  his 
father's  face,  and,  through  all  the  bitterness,  the 
hopeless  despair  that  overwhelmed  him,  came  by 
chance  at  understanding.  If  he  had  failed,  there 
would  have  been  no  such  recriminations  as  these. 
But  he  had  not  failed;  he  had  set  his  feet  upon  the 
long,  long  road,  but  it  was  the  road  to  success. 
14  203 


RICHARD    FURUONG 

In  that  moment  both  of  them  had  forgotten 
Anne.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice  they  both  turned 
in  surprise,  finding  her  eyes  were  blazing,  too,  her 
fingers  nervously  pulling  at  the  tassels  of  the  table- 
cloth. 

"If  Dicky  doesn't  stay  here  to-night,"  said  she, 
"I'm  going  too,  father!  I  couldn't  stop  in  the  house 
when  I  thought  he  was  being  treated  like  this.  He's 
unhappy  and  he  comes  here  to  us  for  sympathy,  and 
this  is  how  you  give  it  him." 

Dicky  was  unhappy,  was  he?  The  wretched  man 
looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Had  they  no  con- 
ception of  the  misery  that  was  aching  in  his  heart? 
In  one  moment  to  lose  both  his  children;  in  one 
moment  to  realise  that  they  cared  less  for  him  than 
for  each  other! 

But  if  that  were  so,  it  was  so.  A  sense  of  fatal- 
ism came  upon  him  then. 

"Then  go,"  said  he,  "both  of  you!  And  may 
you  never  know  the  sorrow  of  children  who  give 
you  nothing  of  their  love." 

In  silence  Dicky  came  to  Anne's  side  and  gently 
took  her  hand. 

"She  doesn't  mean  what  she  said,  father,"  he 
declared.  "She's  upset,  that's  all.  I  wouldn't  have 
her  come." 

"She  can  speak  for  herself,"  said  Mr.  Furlong. 

"Yes,  she  can  speak  for  herself,"  replied  Dicky, 
"and  that's  what  she  will  say,  isn't  it,  Anne?" 

204 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  squeezed  her  hand  tightly  m  his  own,  and, 
with  the  spirit  as  suddenly  quieted  in  her,  she  bent 
her  head. 

"But  you're  not  going  to-night,  Dicky!"  she 
begged. 

"Yes,  I  am  going,"  he  replied.  "It's  only  a  mat- 
ter of  a  few  hours.  I  should  have  had  to  go  early 
to-morrow  morning.  Don't  you  come  out  now,  try 
and  think  I  haven't  been  at  all.  I  suppose  it  was 
silly  of  me  to  come." 

He  took  her  head  in  his  hands  and  kissed  her. 
The  tears  from  her  eyes  rolling  down  her  cheeks 
had  wet  his  lips.  He  tasted  the  salt  of  them.  Then, 
without  looking  at  his  father  again,  he  took  his  hat 
and  left  the  room. 

Anne's  head  was  bent  with  weeping.  She  did  not 
notice  that  sudden  movement  of  her  father's  towards 
the  door;  she  did  not  notice  the  agony  in  his  face  as 
pride  checked  it  for  him.  She  scarcely  noticed 
when  at  last  he  went  away. 

But  the  moment  he  had  closed  the  door  his  foot- 
steps quickened.  He  hurried  into  the  Mill.  From 
a  window  there  in  one  of  the  lofts  he  could  see 
along  the  road  to  Eckington,  and,  climbing  quickly 
up  the  ladder,  he  looked  out. 

The  figure  of  Dicky  had  just  turned  in  sight,  and 
his  eyes  bent  eagerly  upon  it. 

"Come  back,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and,  as  he 
heard  his  own  words,  shut  his  lips  tight  upon  them. 

205 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Yet  there  he  stayed  until  Dicky  was  out  of  sight, 
the  tears  dropping  from  his  eyes,  too,  falling  in 
thick  splashes  on  the  accumulated  dust  of  flour  at 
his  feet. 


BOOK   II 

CHAPTER    I 

NOT  long  after  his  return  to  London  calam- 
ity fell  upon  Dicky  in  the  departure  of 
Mr.  Nibbs  from  Greenwich.    The  land- 
lord's lease  of  his  cottage  had  expired.     There  was 
no   renewing  it;  the  site  was  wanted  for  business 
premises.    The  whole  row  of  old  cottages  was  razed 
to  the  ground  almost  before  Mr.  Nibbs  had  settled 
elsewhere. 

Now,  with  that  hankering  for  green  fields — not- 
withstanding that,  because  of  his  late  return  from 
London,  he  seldom  saw  them — he  moved  further 
out  into  the  country,  depositing  himself  at  Elstree. 
And  here,  except  for  his  hours  in  the  shop, 
he  was  further  from  Dicky  than  ever.  They  met 
only  on  such  rare  occasions  as  when  Dicky  could 
spare  a  moment  from  his  classes,  but  all  those  even- 
ings when  he  would  sit  alone  with  the  little  print- 
seller  and  his  prints,  those  were  gone  forever.  In 
one  sweep  of  the  arm  of  circumstance  he  had  lost 
the  influence  of  two  people  in  his  life,  and  from  the 

207 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

moment  of  Mr.  Nibbs'  departure  his  days  were 
filled  with  disappointment. 

Madame  Marco  and  her  wiles,  with  her  pretty 
cynicism  of  life  that  threatened  to  rob  him  of  al] 
his  illusions;  Monsieur  Marco  with  his  bewildering 
conceit,  they  both  jarred  upon  his  spirits.  Mr. 
Nibbs  had  gone,  and  he  had  no  respite  from  them 
now.  In  the  evening  after  supper  he  would  go  up 
to  his  attic  bedroom,  sitting  there  alone  with  his 
blocks  of  wood,  where,  by  the  light  of  a  solitary 
candle,  he  worked  desultorily  at  his  wood-cuts  with- 
out pleasure  or  inspiration. 

For  a  week  or  so  in  a  fine  depression,  he  learnt 
for  the  first  time  that  gloom  and  disappointment 
which  can  overtake  an  artist  at  his  work.  For 
many  days  the  creative  ability  in  him  seemed  dead. 
Nothing  he  put  his  hand  to  took  upon  itself  the 
charm  of  life.  At  the  night  classes  the  charcoal 
burnt  no  longer  in  his  fingers;  for  long  minutes  to- 
gether he  would  stand,  holding  it  listlessly  in  his 
hand. 

He  believed  now  that  his  work  was  finished,  that 
his  power  and  his  energy  were  spent.  Thoughts  of 
suicide  came  unbidden  to  him  at  night.  At  all 
times  of  the  day  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  crimi- 
nally wasting  the  hours  that  life  held  out  to  him. 

Now,  in  this^  mood,  he  feared  even  to  visit 
Mr.  Nibbs  in  his  shop.  The  little  man  believed  in 
him.  He  would  believe  no  longer  if  he  were  to 

208 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

hear  the  opinions  that  Dicky  entertained  about  him- 
self. So  he  dragged  out  the  days,  giving  food  in 
his  loneliness  to  this  gnawing  spirit  of  despair. 

And  so  it  might  have  continued  had  not  Monsieur 
Marco  unwittingly  put  an  end  to  it  and  brought 
about  that  change  in  his  life  which  was  the  one 
thing  at  that  moment  that  he  needed. 

Of  Dicky's  painting  that  Madame  Marco  had 
seen  she  had  told  her  husband  nothing.  He  had 
taken  the  word  of  Mr.  Nibbs  that  the  boy  could 
paint,  but  of  the  kind  of  work  he  did  he  was  com- 
placently ignorant.  He  had  seen  the  work  of 
Thomas  Parker  at  the  shop  in  the  Waterloo  Bridge 
Road,  and,  believing  them  to  compare  so  unfavour- 
ably with  his  own  ambitious  efforts  at  portraiture, 
he  had  come  insensibly  to  the  conclusion  that  Dicky 
was  no  artist  at  all. 

Then,  too,  one  evening  when  Dicky  had  been  at 
his  classes  he  had  climbed  up  to  the  attic  bedroom 
and  found  there  the  blocks  of  wood  upon  which 
Dicky  was  desultorily  working.  He  smiled  as  he 
picked  them  up.  In  that  stage  they  looked  so  much 
like  the  work  of  a  child  that  he  had  become  con- 
vinced of  Dicky's  inability. 

"Ill  show  him  some  of  my  portraits  one  of  these 
days,"  said  he  aloud,  and  one  of  those  days  of 
Dicky's  depression  he  did. 

With  a  great  deal  of  pomp  and  ceremony,  calling 
up  his  wife  to  the  studio  and  arranging  the  light 

209 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

from  the  window  in  the  roof,  he  unlocked  a  big 
cupboard  door  from  which  he  took  out  his  portrait 
of  Madame  Marco,  framed  in  a  frame  of  massive 
gilt. 

"There,  now,"  said  he,  and,  swelling  his  chest,  he 
stood  away  with  pride  to  look  at  it,  "I  don't  show 
my  work — do  I,  darling?  I  shall  never  sell  this, 
not  because  I  want  to  and  can't,  but  because  I  could 
— but  won't." 

He  crossed  the  room,  laying  an  arm  heavily  on 
Dicky's  shoulder. 

"Twenty  sittings,  my  boy — all  a  labour  of  love. 
You  see  the  foreshortening  of  that  arm.  Sargent 
might  have  done  a  thing  like  that.  I'll  point  out  the 
beauties  to  you.  You  can  see  them,  too — you  are 
an  artist — you  will  be  one  day — but  I'll  point  them 
out.  That  flesh  colour — I  don't  boast  about  it — 
there  it  is.  You  might  prick  it  and  it  'ud  bleed. 
The  eyes — just  go  up  close  and  look  at  them — no! 
closer  still.  Don't  they  speak?  I  worked  and 
worked  at  them  till  of  their  own  perfection  they 
looked  at  me  and  said — stop!  And  the  likeness. 
What  can  I  say — it  is  my  darling.  Sometimes  I 
take  it  out  when  I  am  working  alone  up  here,  and 
she  keeps  me  company.  Now  tell  me  what  you 
think — just  what  comes  into  your  mind.  I  defy 
criticism.  You  could  not  hurt  me  if  you  tried." 

He  thrust  both  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  He 
stood  with  his  legs  apart;  his  face  glowed  with 

210 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

satisfaction.  In  Dicky's  silence  he  imagined  he 
heard  the  glowing  terms  of  praise  and  could  not 
from  where  he  stood  see  the  twinkle  of  laughter  in 
Madame  Marco's  eyes. 

"Am  I  to  say  exactly  what  I  think?"  said  Dicky, 
turning  round,  and  though  the  twinkle  in  Madame 
Marco's  eyes  became  a  sudden  frown  he  took  no 
notice  of  it.  His  mood  had  been  desperation  for 
many  days  by  then.  He  did  not  care  what  happened 
to  him. 

"Exactly  what  you  think,"  replied  Monsieur 
Marco,  still  in  the  fullest  confidence  of  voice. 

"Then  I  think,"  said  Dicky,  "that  it's  a  photo- 
graph you've  stuck  on  to  a  piece  of  canvas.  It 
isn't  a  picture,  you've  only  just  coloured  it — that's 
all." 

With  the  airiness  of  his  conceit  he  might  have 
carried  off  the  sting  of  adverse  criticism,  but  to  be 
found  out  in  his  own  deceit,  this  was  more  than 
Monsieur  Marco  could  bear.  His  cheeks  flamed  up 
a  scarlet  in  his  anger.  His  moustachios  bristled, 
and  words  spluttered  on  his  lips. 

"I've  never  been  so  insulted  in  my  life!"  he  cried. 
"A  coloured  photograph!  By  God,  sir — when  you 
paint  as  well  as  that  go  down  on  your  knees  and — 
and — thank — God — for  your — your  ability.  A  col- 
oured photograph !  To  me !  A  greater  artist  than 
he  can  ever  hope  to  be!  My  darling,  what  shall 
I  do?" 

211 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

But,  without  waiting  Madame  Marco's  advice,  he 
acted  on  the  uncontrollable  impulse  of  his  anger. 

"Get  out  of  this  house,  sir!"  he  shouted.  "Out 
you  go  this  very  minute  and  take  your  filthy  pay 
with  you!" 

He  took  some  money  out  of  his  pocket,  carefully 
counted  out  five  shillings,  and  flung  them  with  a  fine 
gesture  of  disregard  upon  the  floor.  They  rolled 
past  Dicky's  feet.  He  took  no  notice  of  them. 
"Pick  up  that  five  shillings,  sir!"  cried  Monsieur 
Marco,  who  had  never  been  so  generous  with  money 
in  his  life  before. 

"Thank  you — it's  yours,"  said  Dicky  quietly,  and 
he  walked  towards  the  door. 

"You're  not  going  to  take  it?"  demanded  Mon- 
sieur Marco,  scarcely  believing  it  could  be  true. 

"No,"  said  Dicky. 

Madame  Marco  looked  at  him  in  pity. 

"You  little  fool,"  she  whispered,  and  he  just 
heard  her. 

"Am  I?"  he  exclaimed  bitterly.  "I've  been  a  fool 
to  stay  here  as  long  as  I  have.  Do  you  think  it 
does  me  any  good  to  paint  those  beastly  skies  and 
seas?  I'd  sooner  go  and  paint  signs  over  shop  win- 
dows." 

Words  were  beyond  Monsieur  Marco  now.  Had 
he  not  been  an  arrant  coward  at  heart,  he  would 
have  taken  Dicky  by  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  flung 
him  down  the  attic  stairs.  That  is  what  he  would 

212 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

dearly  have  loved  to  do.  He  believed  that  it  would 
have  made  him  a  great  hero  in  Madame  Marco's 
eyes.  But  there  was  an  ugly  look  in  Dicky's  face  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  heat  of  his  defiance,  so  Mon- 
sieur Marco  called  a  ready  spirit  of  discretion  to 
his  aid,  and,  instead  of  proving  himself  a  hero,  he 
strode  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  flung  out  his  arm 
in  the  direction  of  the  stairs. 

"Get  out!"  he  muttered,  and,  as  it  sounded  well 
and  he  believed  he  must  look  impressive,  standing 
like  that,  he  repeated  it.  "Get  out  1"  said  he. 

Dicky  walked  through  the  door  to  his  room  where 
he  straightway  began  his  packing.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  and  he  was  pressing  the  last  of  his  few 
possessions  into  the  limited  capacity  of  his  little  bag, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Madame  Marco  came  in. 

"Are  you  coming  down  to  tea?"  she  asked. 

"To  tea?"  said  he 

"Yes." 

"No — thank  you." 

"But  you're  not  really  going?"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  am  indeed,"  he  replied. 

"But  he  didn't  mean  it.  He's  beginning  to  be 
sorry  now — you're  such  a  help.  If  you  go  and  say 
it  was  not  a  coloured  photograph,  he'll  have  for- 
gotten all  about  it  by  to-morrow." 

"But  it  was  a  coloured  photograph,"  declared 
Dicky,  "a  photograph  enlarged.  Do  you  mean  to 
sav  he'd  be  satisfied  with  a  lie  like  that?" 

213 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"He  would,"  said  she. 

"Well — I've  said  I'm  going  and  I'm  going.  I 
wouldn't  stop  for  anything  now.  You  can  tell  him 
that.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  again." 

Such  was  the  desperation  of  his  mood  that 
no  persuasion  of  hers  could  detain  him.  As  they 
sat  over  their  tea  in  the  dining  room  downstairs, 
they  heard  the  hall  door  slam  and  looked  at  each 
other  in  silent  surprise. 

Monsieur  Marco  peeped  out  behind  the  curtains 
to  watch  him  go  by  them,  and  then,  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders,  he  returned  to  the  table. 

"That  boy,"  said  he,  "will  never  be  an  artist,  my 
darling — he  has  not  got  the  perseverance.  He 
might  have  learnt  a  lot  from  me.  I  had  promised 
him  one  of  these  days  he  should  paint  a  shipwreck — 
instead  of  which  now  he  will  be  a  shipwreck — heh? 
Ha!  ha!" 

He  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  arms  about  his 
neck. 

"He  will  be  a  shipwreck — heh!" 

She  laughed  at  his  little  joke  and  she  kissed  him. 
And  that  was  quite  sufficient  for  Monsieur  Marco; 
he  did  not  ask  her  why  she  sighed. 


CHAPTER    II 

IT  had   not   entered   into    Dicky's   calculations, 
when  he  refused  the  five  shillings  which  Mon~ 
sieur  Marco  had  flung  at  him,  that  he  only  had 
three  pennies  in  his  pocket.     Pride  is  a  luxury  only 
the    rich    can    afford.     That    was    why    Madame 
Marco  had  called  him  a  little  fool.     He  was  far 
too  poor  to  indulge  in  it. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  out  in  the  streets  that 
he  remembered  the  extent  of  his  possessions.  Three 
pennies!  Enough  to  get  up  to  town!  He  looked 
at  a  passing  clock.  It  was  a  quarter  to  six.  With 
good  fortune  he  might  find  the  shop  open  in  the 
Waterloo  Bridge  Road.  Mr.  Nibbs  would  lend 
him  some  money  for  the  immediate  present.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  to  return  to  Monsieur  Marco's 
and  demand  the  five  shillings  there  which  were 
rightly  his.  A  sense  of  humour  might  have  sug- 
gested it.  There  would  have  been  a  touch  of 
comeHy  in  his  return,  asking  for  that  five  shillings 
with  which  Monsieur  Marco  had  been  so  loath  to 
part.  But,  in  his  pride,  it  never  occurred  to  him. 

He  jumped  onto  a  passing  train  and  soon  the 
sight  of  Greenwich  Observatory  was  lost  amidst  the 

215 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

tangle  of  house-tops.  He  had  left  Monsieur  Marco's 
atelier;  was  on  his  way  to  a  sterner  school,  a  harder 
master  than  he  had  served  as  yet.  For  when  at  last 
he  reached  the  Waterloo  Bridge  Road  the  little 
print-seller's  shop  was  shut.  The  old  worn  shut- 
ters stared  down  at  him,  expressionless  and  without 
sympathy. 

He  peered  through  the  letter  box.  There  was  no 
light  within.  A  policeman  stood  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  watching  him  until  he  moved  away. 
There  was  all  the  night  in  front  of  him.  He  looked 
helplessly  to  right  and  left,  wondering  where  he  was 
going  to  sleep. 

Turning  then  towards  the  Strand,  as  he  had  gone 
that  first  day  when  he  had  sold  the  picture  to  Mr. 
Nibbs,  the  association  of  ideas  brought  the  thought 
of  Constance  to  his  mind. 

She  had  said,  when  they  had  parted,  that  if  ever 
he  needed  help  he  was  to  come  to  her.  But,  as  he 
thought  of  it,  he  knew  it  was  more  than  just  help 
that  he  needed.  The  utter  loneliness  of  his  posi- 
tion then  demanded  more  than  mere  assistance.  He 
wanted  sympathy.  He  wanted  even  more  than  that. 
In  the  last  few  weeks,  since  he  had  learnt  of  Dor- 
othy, the  absence  of  any  affection  in  his  life  was 
like  a  hunger  that  he  could  not  satisfy.  Now  each 
moment,  as  he  reviewed  the  situation  in  his  mind, 
the  remembrance  of  all  those  fine  qualities  in  Con- 
stance rose  up  before  his  eyes.  He  recalled  that 

216 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

day  in  the  picture-framer's  shop  when,  with  a  heart 
he  could  almost  see  beating  beneath  her  bodice,  she 
had  taken  up  arms  in  his  defence.  There  was  that 
day  in  the  gardens  in  Kew,  those  memorable  mo- 
ments of  his  folly  which,  truly  enough,  as  Madame 
Marco  had  said,  he  was  coming  to  regard  with  less 
and  less  remorse.  Her  generosity,  too,  with  her 
money,  all  these  things  came  back  to  him.  But  the 
faster  they  found  resurrection  in  his  mind,  the  more 
firmly  did  his  pride  bid  him  take  no  advantage  of 
them. 

He  had  come  by  this  time  with  his  thoughts  to 
the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane,  and  here  the  almost 
childish  folly  of  his  pride  forced  him,  after  one 
glance  at  the  familiar  windows,  to  turn  away. 

If  indeed  it  had  come  to  sleeping  in  the  streets, 
he  told  himself,  "then  for  God's  sake!"  he  ex- 
claimed beneath  his  breath — "let  me  have  the  cour- 
age to  do  it."  So,  with  quickening  strides,  he  set 
off  for  the  Polytechnic  Institute,  where  for  the  next 
few  hours  in  the  classes,  at  least,  he  was  sure  of  a 
roof  to  his  head. 

There  was  not  much  work  done  that  evening  in 
the  life  room.  Always  there  are  some  who  can  af- 
ford to  waste  their  time,  to  whom  art  is  a  game  and 
their  pursuit  of  it  something  in  the  nature  of  a  prac- 
tical joke.  Yet,  notwithstanding  the  distractions 
when  the  master  was  out  of  the  room,  never  had 
Dicky  worked  so  seriously.  The  study  in  oils  he  did 

217 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

that  evening  was  sold  some  months  later  by  Mr. 
Nibbs  for  the  paltry  sum  of  two  pounds,  yet  as  a 
studio  sketch,  as  a  study  not  of  the  figure  but  of  a 
model  in  all  the  smoky  atmosphere  and  mystery  of 
the  studio,  it  was  ingenious ;  it  was  almost  masterly. 

For  some  little  while  a  girl  student  standing  near 
him  left  her  easel,  coming  to  watch  him  as  he 
worked. 

With  delicate  and  suggestive  brush  strokes  he  had 
taken  the  eye  beyond  the  model's  throne  to  the  dim 
line  of  students'  faces  beyond.  One  high  light  upon 
the  model's  shoulder  was  the  culminating  interest  in 
the  picture.  But  for  that,  it  all  drifted  into  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room  leading  the  mind  on  tip-toe 
of  imagination  beyond  and  away  into  the  whole 
spirit  of  the  surroundings. 

"Doing  that  for  a  paper?"  she  asked  presently. 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"Wish  I  were,"  said  he. 

"Any  paper  would  take  it,"  she  replied. 

"Would  they?     You  don't  know  the  papers." 

With  a  dry  laugh  he  thought  back  to  his  own 
experience.  He  knew  what  Channing  would  say  to 
such  a  sketch  as  that. 

"They  want  more  definition,"  said  he;  "the  col- 
oured photograph." 

She  let  him  continue  in  silence  for  a  time;  then 
she  enquired  if  he  did  work  for  any  of  the  dealers. 

He  put  his  brushes  down  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
218 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Do  you  think  I'm  selling  pictures,  then?"  said 
he. 

"Well— aren't  you?" 

His  laugh  was  dry  again.  But  by  infinitesimal 
degrees  he  was  coming  to  the  humour  of  his  situa- 
tion. What  would  she  say  if  he  told  her  that  he 
was  going  to  sleep  in  the  streets  that  night?  It  was 
at  this  thought  he  laughed.  Yet  there  still  was 
bitterness  in  it. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'm  not  selling  pictures — 
well,  I've  sold  two  since  I  came  to  London  in  eight 
months — two  pounds  each." 

"Figure?" 

"Landscape." 

tTT  should  think  you're  good  at  that — you're 
afraid  of  this  figure,  aren't  you?" 

"No,  why  should  I  be  ?  I  don't  just  feel  it,  that's 
all.  I  just  feel  like  doing  exactly  what  I  see.  What 
you  call  facing  things  as  they  are — eh — well,  I  feel 
like  facing  'em." 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically,  and  then,  as  the 
master  came  by,  returned  to  her  easel.  The  master 
stopped  at  Dicky's  back  and  watched  him  for  a 
moment. 

"Do  you  think  you're  learning  anything?"  he 
asked  at  length. 

Dicky  stood  aside. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"What?" 

15  219  , 


RICHARD    FURLOiN. 

The  man's  tone  was  abrupt.  Had  there  been 
any  sympathy  in  it,  Dicky  might  have  looked  for 
more.  There  was  none  and  he  looked  for  none. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  all  the  things  I'm  learn- 
ing?" he  enquired. 

"All  the  things — yes." 

"Well,  I'm  learning  that  the  less  you  learn  by 
rote,  and  the  more  you  see  by  nature,  the  better  for 
you.  That's  one  thing.  I'm  learning  that  when  a 
chap's  up  against  it,  so  to  speak,  he'd  better  look  it 
right  in  the  face — I'm  learning " 

By  this  time  the  master  had  recovered  from  his 
astonishment.  He  was  there  to  teach,  not  to  listen 
to  platitudes.  With  a  little  more  perception  of 
human  nature,  he  might  have  recognised  that  note 
of  bitterness  in  Dicky's  voice  and  known  that  some- 
thing was  the  matter.  As  it  was,  he  ignored  it. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  talk  nonsense,"  said  he.  "I 
meant  what  are  you  learning  from  the  model? 
Nothing  as  far  as  I  can  see.  What's  all  this  blue? 
That  draped  background  is  dark  purple." 

"That  blue,"  said  Dicky,  "is  the  smoke  from 
the  numerous  pipes  and  cigarettes  that  are  burning 
in  the  room." 

"Well,  you're  not  here  to  paint  that.  You're 
here  to  learn  the  figure,  and  I'm  here  to  teach  you  it. 
If  you  go  and  paint  daubs  like  that,  I  can't  teach 
you  anything.  Paint  it  all  out  and  draw  that  figure 
in  properly." 

220 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Supposing  I  were  painting  that  to  sell  it?"  said 
Dicky.  "Supposing  I  wanted  money — aren't  I  at 
liberty,  if  I  pay  my  fees,  to  come  here  and  make  it?" 

"Certainly — then  you  don't  want  any  help  from 
me.  Do  you  expect  to  sell  that?" 

"No,"  said  Dicky. 

"So  I  should  have  thought,"  said  he. 

"I  don't  expect  to  sell  anything,"  Dicky  retorted. 
"It's  a  bit  of  luck  when  I  do." 

"Were  you  a  student  here?" 

"No."   ' 

"Where?" 
"  Nowhere." 

The  master  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  laugh. 

"You  ought  to  be  careful,"  said  he.  "You're  get- 
ting ideas  before  you  know  what  to  do  with  them. 
If  you  like  to  draw  that  figure  properly,  I'll  tell  you 
where  you're  wrong  when  I  come  round  again." 

A  smile  came  into  Dicky's  eyes.  His  sketch  was 
finished.  He  took  the  canvas  from  the  board  and 
pinned  a  paper  in  its  place.  More  than  an  hour 
later,  when  the  class  was  just  breaking  up,  the  master 
returned.  He  was  new  to  them  all  and  slow  in 
reading  the  character  of  his  pupils.  .  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  expected  of  human  nature  to  find  that  Dicky 
should  have  done  what  he  suggested,  and  when  he 
saw  the  charcoal  drawing  of  the  model  he  stood 
astonished  but  in  silence. 

It  was  not  that  it  was  perfect  by  any  means,  but 
221 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  faults  were  such  that  for  the  moment  he  could 
not  place  his  finger  on  them.  In  every  way  it  was 
the  best  of  any  he  had  seen  that  evening,  and  the 
girl  student,  who  had  overheard  their  conversation, 
having  watched  Dicky's  drawing  in  charcoal  from 
beginning  to  end,  stood  by  with  a  smile  of  anticipa- 
tion on  her  face. 

He  felt  her  presence  and  looked  round. 

"The  class  is  over — you  can  go  home,"  said  he. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  slowly  edged  away. 

"Well,"  said  Dicky  at  last. 

"Well,"  said  the  master,  "now  here,  of  course, 
you — well,  you  come  more  into  my  province,  don't 
you?" 

"I've  no  doubt  I  do,"  said  Dicky,  "and  I  want 
to  know  where  it's  wrong." 

"Well,  let  me  see  now — isn't — isn't  that  arm  a 
bit  short?"  He  held  up  his  hand  to  the  model. 
"Just  one  moment,  please — one  moment.  You  see, 
it  comes — it  comes " 

"Comes  where?"  said  Dicky. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  perhaps  it's  right." 

"The  shoulder  doesn't  come  round  this  way 
enough,"  said  Dicky.  "That  'ud  make  it  longer." 

"Yes — yes — I  knew  there  was  something.  Do 
you  think  the  head's  large  enough?" 

"No." 

"And  the  modelling  of  that  leg's  not  good." 

"No — it's  rotten." 

222 


The  master  pursed  his  lips.  He  was  accustomed 
to  speak  about  drawings  that  were  hopeless  from 
every  point  of  view.  The  general  correctness  of 
this  one  had  disarmed  him.  To  be  a  master  in  an 
art  school  is  to  be  a  failure,  is  mostly  to  spend  one's 
days  watching  failures  at  their  work.  Competence 
is  not  a  quality  that  a  master  is  competent  to  deal 
with.  This  little  man  was  at  a  loss  for  more  to 
say. 

"But  it's  very  good  in  the  time,"  he  went  on 
presently.  "You  ought  to  do  all  right,  you  know. 
But  don't  waste  your  time  over  that  other  sort  of 
stuff.  It  doesn't  do  you  any  good.  You've  got  a 
natural  aptitude,  you  know.  How  long  have  you 
been  here?" 

"Nearly  two  months." 

"And  no  lessons  before  that?" 

"No." 

"Oh — then  quite  a  natural  aptitude."  He  dis- 
missed the  model  with  a  glance.  "You'll  sell  your 
work  soon — if  you  don't  try  too  soon.  It's  bad  to 
begin  selling  pictures  too  soon." 

"Is  it?"  said  Dicky.  "I  don't  think  it  'ud  hurt 
me." 

"No?  Well,  beware  of  it.  Good-night — good- 
night." 

Dicky  watched  him  as  he  walked  away.  He 
was  going  home,  no  doubt,  to  a  cheerful  little  sup- 

223 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

per,  to  the  comfort  of  a  glowing  fire  and  a  warm 
bed.  Yet  for  all  these  possessions,  as  his  eye  fol- 
lowed the  little  man,  Dicky  would  not  have  changed 
places  with  him  for  the  world. 

On  the  steps  outside  in  Regent  Street  he  found 
the  girl  student  waiting  by  the  door. 

"Seen  Mr.  Mason  go  out?"  she  enquired. 

"No." 

"I  expect  he's  gone,  then,"  said  she,  and  she 
walked  down  the  steps  by  Dicky's  side,  successful 
and  pleased  with  her  little  subterfuge,  for  she  had 
been  waiting  for  him. 

"Why  do  they  have  fools  like  that  man  is?"  she 
asked  presently — "the  master,  I  mean — Mr.  Thing- 
um-me-bob." 

"He's  not  a   fool,"   said  Dicky.     "I  expect  he 

knows  a  good  deal  about  the  figure Lord! 

what  a  life." 

"Ah — you're  lucky,"  said  she.  "You're  all  right." 

And  somehow  for  the  next  hour  or  so  that  was 
as  warm  to  him  as  a  cheerful  supper,  a  crackling 
fire  or  a  warm  bed. 

At  her  tube  station  he  left  her.  She  vanished 
with  the  crowd  of  others  coming  from  the  theatres; 
disappeared  like  a  little  animal  into  the  warm 
heart  of  the  earth.  Then  he  turned  away  and 
walked  down  Regent  Street  towards  the  brighter 
lights  of  Piccadilly  Circus. 

224 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I'm  all  right,  am  I?"  he  kept  on  saying  to  him- 
self. "I'm  all  right."  But  the  air  was  growing 
colder  every  moment  and  each  time  it  sounded  less 
comforting  than  the  last. 


CHAPTER    III 

ANIGHT  in  winter  in  the  streets  of  London 
is  not  an  easily  forgotten  thing.     A  thou- 
sand times  Dicky  cursed  his  folly  for  not 
going  to  the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane,  yet  as  many 
times    then   was    glad    of    it.     There    were    other 
creatures  more  miserable  than  himself,  with  no  am- 
bition such  as  his  to  keep  warm  the  spirit  within 
them,  men  and  women  and  children  who  had  to  face 
that  night  without  a  hope  of  shelter. 

Till  two  in  the  morning,  people  were  moving  in 
the  streets,  the  county  council  men  in  their  oil-skins 
were  cleansing  the  roadways.  The  mere  sight  of 
humanity  kept  a  certain  warmth  within  him.  He 
walked  round  and  round  the  frequented  thorough- 
fares, his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  the  collar  of 
his  coat  turned  up.  Only  when  some  miserable 
woman  passed  him  on  the  pavement  did  he  feel  the 
real  chill  of  life  in  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  Some 
looked  at  him  with  tired  eyes,  some  spoke  an  en- 
ticing word.  Usually  it  was  a  word  of  fatuous, 
ironical  endearment — such  a  word  as  every  man  has 
used  to  the  woman  whom  he  loves,  and,  hearing  it 
thus,  wonders  if  he  can  ever  use  it  again. 

226 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Yet  there  was  a  bravado  of  courage  about  them 
which  sometimes  shamed  the  drooping  spirit  in 
himself.  They  walked  with  their  heads  held  high, 
that  well-known  walk  of  pinching  shoes,  struggling 
against  fatigue  to  be  coquettish.  Their  voices  were 
cheerful.  Never  did  they  whine.  Tradeswomen, 
not  beggars,  they  were  until  the  very  last;  and,  as 
the  hours  drew  on,  when  they  knew  well  that  cus- 
tom was  not  coming  their  way,  still  never  showed 
despair,  but,  with  a  marvellous  bravery,  faced  the 
bankruptcy  of  that  night  alone. 

So  long  as  they  were  abroad  upon  the  streets, 
Dicky  kept  burning  the  tiny  spark  of  fortitude  that 
brought  him  warmth.  There  was  the  faint,  chill 
interest  of  life  to  keep  the  bitter  cold  away. 

Down  Oxford  Street  one  little  girl  looked  to  the 
right  and  left,  then  crossed  the  road  to  speak  to 
him. 

"Take  me  'ome,  dearie,"  she  said,  and  her  teeth 
were  faintly  chattering. 

He  came  jerkily  to  a  sudden  halt  and  stood  then 
looking  down  at  her.  She  was  not  more  than  eigh- 
teen years  old,  but  life  already  was  finding  its  way 
into  her  face.  Her  clothes  were  scanty.  Warmth 
and  comfort  had  been  sacrificed  to  a  pitiable  show 
of  finery — the  shop-window  bravely  decked  to  hide 
the  miserable  poverty  within. 

"I'm  not  going  home,"  said  Dicky  quietly. 

"Well,  take  me  to  an  'otel,  then — I  don't  want 
227 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

nothinV  And  she  added  to  her  persuasions  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way  that  might  have  been  comical  to 
one  older  than  Dicky.  He  shuddered  as  he  heard 
her. 

"I've  been  walkin'  about  ever  since  four  o'clock 
this  afternoon,"  she  went  on,  reaching  for  his  pity. 
"A  bit  sickenin',  I  can  tell  yer.  Come  on — be  a 
sport." 

The  grotesqueness  of  that  invitation  made  him 
smile. 

"I'm  in  the  same  predicament  as  you  are,"  said 
he. 

"Same  what?"  she  asked. 

"Same  way — same  difficulty.  I've  got  to  sleep 
out  to-night." 

"Go  on!" 

"Quite  true.  I  shall  turn  into  a  doorway  sooner 
or  later.  I  can't  stand  this  cold  much  longer." 

She  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"You're  a  fine  sort,"  she  said  with  a  grin.  "What 
'ave  you  been  doin'?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  thought  of  ex- 
plaining things  to  her  was  amusing,  but  on  those 
cold  pavements  seemed  scarcely  worth  while. 

She  turned  away  at  last.  He  had  neither  money 
nor  kind  to  offer  her.  He  realised  her  cheerfulness 
betrayed  a  greater  courage  than  his  own.  She 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  him  and  winked. 

"Well,  good  luck,"  she  said,  and,  still  standing 
228 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

there,  he  watched  her  flirting  down  the  street  with 
those  pinching  high-heeled  shoes  towards  a  dim  fig- 
ure that  was  approaching  out  of  the  distance. 

"My  God!"  he  muttered  and  walked  away. 

When  two  o'clock  had  struck  and  all  that  terrible 
city  for  one  moment  rang  full  of  churches  in  his 
ears,  then  the  streets  began  to  empty.  Impercep- 
tibly the  human  element  drifted  away,  the  night 
began  to  swallow  up  its  own.  Inversely  as  a  crowd 
collects  from  nowhere  in  an  empty  street,  so  these 
creatures  of  unhappy  chance  dispersed  and  faded 
away  into  nothingness.  Through  Oxford  Street, 
through  Regent  Street,  wherever  he  walked,  Dicky 
found  himself  alone.  It  was  then  the  bitter  cold 
found  its  mastery  of  him.  His  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing. The  thought  of  sleeping  in  a  doorway  on  the 
ground,  which  at  first  his  mind  had  refused,  insensi- 
bly now  was  forcing  itself  upon  him. 

He  had  set  out  from  the  Polytechnic  steps  with 
the  belief  that  he  could  walk  the  streets  all  night. 
The  idea  of  being  turned  out  of  a  doorway  by  a 
policeman  had  no  liking  for  him  then.  But  now  he 
was  coming  to  know  that  this  walking  of  the  streets 
needs  a  stern  and  bitter  training.  Every  limb  grew 
wearied  to  exhaustion.  He  commenced  to  look  out 
for  a  deep  and  friendly  doorway,  caring  no  longer 
if  the  police  disturbed  his  rest,  so  only  he  might 
lie  down  and  close  his  eyes. 

The  doorway  of  a  shop  in  Wigmore  Street  of- 
229 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

fered  him  the  deepened  shadow  that  he  sought. 
Looking  up  and  down  the  empty  street,  smiling,  a 
smile  which  his  chattering  teeth  made  a  grin,  to  find 
how  quickly  necessity  teaches,  he  crept  under  the 
porch  and  dropped  down  upon  the  step.  Would 
his  father  refuse  him  that  bed  in  his  old  room  now, 
he  thought,  and  fell  asleep. 

At  what  hour  it  was  he  had  no  means  of  know- 
ing, but  he  awakened  with  a  start.  Someone  had 
entered  his  doorway.  The  police  had  come  to  move 
him  on.  He  sat  up,  blinking  his  eyes.  But  it  was 
not  the  police.  An  old  woman,  wrapped  in  rags, 
carrying  a  wooden  tray  of  match-boxes,  had  seated 
herself  on  the  step  beside  him. 

On  the  moment  it  came  to  his  mind  to  be  up  and 
going,  but  relief  at  the  discovery  that  he  was  not 
to  be  disturbed  let  the  weight  of  his  eyelids  droop 
again.  He  settled  himself  back  into  his  corner. 
Half  returning  to  his  sleep,  he  yet  had  interest 
enough  to  watch  her.  She  might  have  been  any 
age.  Once  the  years  have  made  their  mark  upon 
these  creatures  of  the  streets,  there  is  no  way  of 
telling  how  many  have  been  added. 

With  more  care  for  them  than  for  herself,  she 
placed  her  tray  of  matches  in  the  sheltered  corner, 
covering  them  with  a  rag  from  her  body  against 
the  wetting  of  the  ever  possible  rain.  When  cir- 
cumstance demands  you  take  it  at  a  discount,  a  few 
possessions  may  be  dearer  than  life.  She  looked 

230 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

after  her  matches  first  as  a  highwayman  to  his 
horse.  Then,  rubbing  herself  in  her  clothes  against 
the  door  at  her  back,  she  drew  up  closer  to  Dicky 
to  steal  the  warmth  of  his  body. 

In  a  first  sensation  of  disgust,  he  shrank  into  his 
corner,  held  his  breath  as  the  odour  of  the  rags 
reached  his  nostrils.  This  seemed  life  with  a  venge- 
ance, and,  like  most  in  their  first  acquaintance  of 
it,  appeared  nothing  but  horrible.  He  was  to  learn 
the  humour,  the  cleaner  sentiment  of  it  then. 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  movement,  said  noth- 
ing, but,  determined  in  her  intention,  moved  nearer 
still. 

He  made  as  if  to  rise  and  go.  This  was  loath- 
some. There  were  other  doorways.  His  shudder- 
ing was  not  from  cold  alone  and  when  she  caught 
hold  of  his  arm  he  felt  the  touch  through  his  blood 
running  Tike  cold  water. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  The  only  favour  he  found 
in  her  voice  was  its  human  note.  It  was  a  voice  of 
the  streets. 

"Sit  down,"  she  repeated.  "You  ain't  goin'  out 
of  'ere." 

"Why  not?"  said  he.  Involuntarily  he  waited  to 
hear. 

"Yer  cold,  aren't  yer?  Ain't  pipin'  'ot  in  'ere — 
is  it?  And  it's  a  damned  sight  colder  outside." 

"I  don't  mind  the  cold  so  much." 

But  his  teeth  chattered  and  betrayed  him. 
231 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

She  chuckled  and  still  held  his  arm. 

"All  right,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  she. 
"Yer  dainty  to  it  yet,  aren't  yer?  Think  yer  can 
stick  it  by  yerself  ?  Just  come  to  it,  I  s'pose.  Ever 
slep'  out  afore?" 

"No." 

"Thought  so.  Dainty  to  it — that's  whatcher  are. 
Likes  a  corner  by  yerself.  I  know.  Bloody  cold, 
ain't  it?"  She  rubbed  herself  in  her  clothes  again 
and  saw  the  look  in  his  face.  "That's  for  warm," 
she  said  with  a  grin.  "You're  a  kid — aren't  yer? 
I  don't  want  to  know  nuffin'  about  yer.  Yer  meet 
all  sorts  in  doorways — I  do.  'Ow  do  yer  feel 
now?" 

It  was  true,  he  could  feel  the  warmth  of  her 
body  as  she  leant  against  him.  At  first  it  came  to 
him  in  a  thought  of  how  chill  the  wind  was  whistling 
down  the  street  outside.  When  she  asked,  he  knew 
it  was  the  warmth  of  her  next  to  him.  His  teeth 
had  stopped  chattering.  She  was  comfortable,  no 
doubt.  Even  those  first  feelings  of  revulsion  slowly, 
insensibly,  were  being  lulled  in  him.  He  still  would 
sooner  have  gone,  leaving  her  the  doorway  to  her- 
self, but  with  what  excuse  that  must  not  uncharitably 
offend  her? 

As  he  came  to  think  of  it,  it  was  a  fair  exchange, 
the  warmth  of  her  body  for  the  warmth  of  his. 
And  if  this  were  life,  as,  indeed,  it  seemed,  was  it 
so  horrible,  or  so  ugly  as  he  had  at  first  believed? 

232 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Doubtless  he  would  have  continued  to  find  it  just 
as  ugly  if,  as  the  moments  went  by,  he  had  not 
come  to  appreciate  the  difference  between  that  door- 
way and  the  naked  street  outside. 

'  'Ow  do  yer  feel?"  she  repeated  when  he  had 
forgotten  her  question  and  when  she  had  forgotten 
she  had  asked  it. 

"All  right,"  said  he. 

"Warmer?" 

"Yes." 

"You'll  get  used  to  it.  Few  weeks,  and  you'll 
be  lookin'  out  for  a  body  in  a  doorway,  same  as  I 
do.  But  strange  at  first,  ain't  it?  I  remember  the 
first  man  as  came  and  slep'  up  alongside  of  me.  I 
pushed  'im  off  quick  enough.  'Like  yer  cheek,'  I 
says.  'Never  mind  me  cheek,'  'e  says.  'Yer  bloom- 
in'  well  keep  yerself  warm,'  'e  says.  But  no— like 
a  fool,  I  gets  up  and  never  slep'  a  wink  that  night 
— not  for  the  cold  I  didn't." 

Dicky  smiled  sleepily  and,  turning  his  head  away, 
he  moved  his  body  a  little  closer  to  hers.  She  was 
quick  enough  in  answering  to  it.  In  silence  they 
shifted  about  until  their  positions  were  comfortable. 
And  in  that  silence,  Dicky  felt  a  strong  desire  to 
laugh. 

Philosophy  is  not  a  science  that  you  may  learn. 
Circumstance  leads  you  to  it,  and,  like  a  horse  to 
the  water,  the  drinking  is  to  your  own  discretion. 
It  should  go  ill  with  you  if  you  do  not  grasp  it  then; 

233 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  to  find  that  life  in  its  bitterest  deprivations  is 
just  as  funny  and  perhaps  just  as  tragic  as  any 
clown  in  a  circus,  that  is  the  foundation  of  it  all. 

The  moment  that  Dicky,  discovering  himself  in 
such  a  situation  as  this,  conceived  the  desire  to 
laugh  was  a  turning  point  in  his  life,  greater  than 
that  when  he  had  left  the  Mill.  He  had  come  by 
chance  upon  the  clown  in  the  circus,  and  in  his  own 
despite  was  forced  to  laugh. 


CHAPTER    IV 

IT  was  the  grey  dawn  that  awakened  him  again, 
when  the  feeble  light  of  day  crept  timidly 
down  the  streets.  Life  was  astir  once  more. 
There  came  to  his  ears  the  sudden  rattle  of  milk 
cans,  the  sounds  of  the  dustmen  emptying  their  bins. 
But  beside  him,  in  her  rags,  the  old  woman  still 
slept  on.  It  needed  more  than  the  light  of  day,  or 
the  lethargic  sounds  of  the  early  morning,  to  stir  her 
from  her  dreams.  He  looked  with  curiosity  at  her 
face  that  he  had  only  dimly  seen  as  yet,  and,  though 
he  had  first  shuddered  to  find  himself  awake  beside 
such  a  bedfellow,  yet  there  was  nothing  in  her  face 
to  bear  out  his  disgust. 

She  was  no  longer  young.  Can  that  be  said 
against  her?  Her  cheeks  were  pale  and  thin,  but 
there  was  no  grossness  there.  It  is  not  to  be  taken 
for  granted  that  those  who  live  upon  the  streets  live 
evilly.  There  were  patience  and  forbearance  in  the 
repose  of  her  lips,  a  certain  proud  contentment  in 
the  closed  eyes.  She  was  old,  she  was  ugly,  she  was 
dirty,  she  was  a  pauper — these  were  the  sins  against 
her,  the  only  sins  Dicky  could  see.  Her  virtues,  as 
he  had  found  them  that  night,  were  her  common 
16  235 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sense;  she  had  refused  to  let  him  behave  like  a  fool 
because  she  had  known  the  nature  of  folly  herself, 
and,  above  all,  she  had  been  fair  and  just  in  a 
human  transaction.  She  had  lent  the  warmth  of 
her  body,  every  degree  of  it,  for  the  warmth  of  his. 

He  crept  gently  to  his  feet  lest  he  should  disturb 
her,  propping  her  weary  body  against  the  corner  he 
had  left.  She  still  slept.  It  needed  the  rough  hand 
of  the  law  to  waken  her.  He  was  conscious  as  he 
came  out  into  the  street  again  that  something  had 
been  learnt  by  him  that  night.  He  had  realised  the 
law  of  life  which  demands  that  you  must  give  as  you 
would  take,  with  an  open  hand,  a  free  spirit,  and  a 
heart  to  see  the  everlasting  humour  of  it  all. 

Never  in  his  life  till  then  had  Dicky  realised  the 
full  delight  of  his  existence,  the  joyous  adventure 
of  the  struggle  that  still  lay  hopefully  before  him, 
the  glorious  abandonment  of  chance  which  circum- 
stance was  free  to  give  to  all. 

He  came  away  from  that  doorway  where  he  had 
slept,  and,  though  an  empty  stomach  was  teasing 
every  thought  while  the  grey  chill  of  the  early 
morning  made  his  teeth  chatter  again,  he  hummed 
light-heartedly  to  himself  as  he  walked  quickly 
towards  the  Strand. 

Mr.  Nibbs  opened  his  shop  at  half-past  eight. 
He  set  out  to  get  his  breakfast  there.  By  the  time 
he  reached  it,  the  shutters  were  down.  His  own 
picture,  "The  Scavenger,"  was  hanging  in  the  fore- 

236 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

front  of  the  window.  Even  his  eagerness  for  food 
could  not  prevent  him  from  standing  there  a  mo- 
ment to  admire  it.  He  had  not  seen  it  in  a  frame 
until  then.  The  artist  alone  knows  how  a  frame 
will  add  to  his  self-respect. 

"When  Fve  a  studio,"  he  muttered.  "My  God, 
when  I've  a  studio!" 

There  again  only  an  artist  could  know  all  that 
he  meant  by  that. 

At  last  he  turned  into  the  shop.  A  man  he  had 
never  seen  before  was  standing  behind  the  counter, 
cutting  out  the  gold  mount  to  a  frame  with  the  little 
pointed  knife  that  Mr.  Nibbs  had  always  used  him- 
self. 

"Where's  Mr.  Nibbs?"  asked  Dicky  in  some  con- 
cern. 

"  'E  ain't  'ere  this  morning." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  'E  ain't  'ere." 

"I  know.  I  can  see  that.  Isn't  he  coming  this 
morning?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

The  man  looked  at  him,  unexpected  authority  re- 
senting these  enquiries.  He  was  in  charge.  If  any- 
thing was  wanted,  he  was  there  to  do  it. 

"  'E  ain't  comin',"  he  replied.  "That's  why  I'm 
'ere  to  do  'is  job  for  'im." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  Dicky. 
237 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

The  man  leant  casually  on  the  counter.  He  flat- 
tered himself  he  knew  how  to  deal  with  people  of 
this  kidney. 

"What's  that  to  do  with  you?"  he  enquired. 

Dicky  curbed  his  impatience.  He  wanted  his 
breakfast. 

"I'm  an  artist,"  he  replied  quietly.  "Mr.  Nibbs 
sells  my  pictures — you've  got  one  now  in  the  win- 
dow— in  the  middle  of  the  window — 'The  Scaven- 
ger,' and  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Nibbs  most  particu- 
larly." 

"Well,  I'm  'ere  to  take  any  orders." 

Dicky  looked  at  him  critically.  These  thoughts 
of  his  breakfast  were  mastering  every  other  con- 
sideration. He  felt  the  matter  needed  careful 
handling. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,"  said  he,  and  he  grinned  in 
anticipation  of  the  man's  amazement,  "the  fact  is, 
I — I  want  to  borrow  sixpence.  I  want  some  break- 
fast. I'm — well,  I'm  hungry." 

It  was  more  than  mere  amazement.  The  man 
stood  up  from  the  counter,  saying,  "Well,  I'm 
damned!"  And,  having  said  it  once,  he  said  it 
again. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  remarked  Dicky. 

"What  yer  mean  yer  sorry  to  'ear  that?  I  am 
damned.  I  never  heard  such  a  thing  in  my  life — 
comin'  in  'ere  and  askin'  me  for  sixpence  to  get  yer 
breakfast.  Why  if  I  liked,  I  could  get  a  police- 

238 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

man  and  'ave  yer  run  in.  Friend  of  Mr.  Nibbsl 
Wonder  'ow  many  friends  Mr.  Nibbs  'ud  'ave  if 
everybody  was  in  want  of  a  breakfast." 

Dicky  felt  the  pains  of  hunger,  felt  them  the 
more  when  he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  his  case. 

"Don't  you  believe  me,  then?"  he  asked  seriously. 

"No,  I  don't.  'Ow  am  I  to  know  who  you  are? 
Mr.  Nibbs  'as  gone  to  bed  with  a  cold,  and  he's  put 
me  in  charge  'ere  to  look  after  the  shop  till  Vs  well 
again.  I  should  like  to  see  'is  face  if  I  told  'im  I 
gave  sixpence  to  the  first  person  as  came  in  and 
said  they  wanted  a  breakfast." 

"I  know  what  he'd  say,"  said  Dicky. 

"Oh,  do  yer?" 

"Yes ;  he'd  say  a  breakfast  wasn't  enough  to  keep 
a  man  alive  through  the  day." 

"Oh,  would  'e?  You  know  Mr.  Nibbs  very  well, 
don't  cher?  Now,  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll 
just  clear  out,  becos  I've  got  work  to  do." 

Dicky  regarded  him  cynically.  He  was  so  pleased 
with  himself,  so  confident  of  his  knowledge  in  hu- 
man nature.  With  all  that  confidence,  the  man  re- 
turned his  look  boldly,  defiantly.  He  had  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of;  nothing  that  Dicky  could  ever 
know.  The  advantage  was  all  on  his  side.  Dicky 
was  begging  for  his  breakfast.  Poverty  is  a  crime 
to  some,  a  crime  with  no  extenuating  circumstances. 

"I  suppose  you've  never  been  hungry,"  said  Dicky 
in  his  contempt. 

239 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"No,  thank  yer — never.  I've  always  'ad  my 
meals,  and  I've  always  worked  for  'em." 

"What  a  comfort  that  must  be  when  you  see  an- 
other man  going  hungry." 

"Yes — mustn't  it!  Now,  look  'ere,  none  of  your 
lip!  If  you  don't  clear  out  of  this  shop,  I'll  fetch 
a  bobby  to  yer.  Beggin'  ain't  permitted  in  this 
country,  yer  know." 

The  chance  of  his  breakfast  was  gone  now. 
Plainly  he  recognised  that.  He  turned  on  his  heel 
and  began  to  walk  out  of  the  shop.  It  was  a  waste 
of  time  to  stay  there. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  here  when  Mr.  Nibbs  comes 
back,"  said  he.  "I  should  like  to  see  your  face 
when  I  tell  him." 

That  was  poor  enough  satisfaction.  To  add  to 
it,  he  slammed  the  door  as  he  went  out,  forgetting 
the  pneumatic  contrivance  to  prevent  the  door  from 
slamming  of  itself.  Expecting  to  hear  with  some 
little  gratification  to  his.  mood  the  crash  behind  him, 
it  merely  stopped  some  few  inches  from  the  frame, 
then  closed  quietly  and  gently  by  itself. 

That  seemed  to  him  quite  funny.  He  saw  the 
humour  of  that  and  laughed  out  loud.  Looking  out 
through  a  chink  in  the  rows  of  pictures,  the  man 
inside  saw  him  walking  away  with  a  broad  smile  on 
his  face,  and  said  he  was  damned  again.  He  knew 
that  Dicky  had  not  wanted  his  breakfast  then.  That 

240 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

was  not  the  countenance  of  a  man  who  was  going 
hungry  for  a  meal. 

But  Dicky  smiled  to  himself  all  the  way  across 
Waterloo  Bridge.  He  could  not  forget  his  sub- 
lime impotence  with  that  door.  He  had  meant  the 
slam  of  it  to  shake  half  the  pictures  in  the  shop,  and 
that  ridiculous  breathing  sound  was  all  that  had 
reached  his  ears.  Instead  of  thinking  of  his  hun- 
ger, he  drifted  into  a  contemplation  upon  the  use- 
lessness  of  rage. 

However,  the  need  of  his  breakfast  was  still 
there,  but  by  now  he  knew  where  he  was  going  to 
get  it.  That  night  in  the  streets,  it  seemed,  had 
rid  him  of  the  folly  of  pride.  Without  so  much 
as  a  moment's  hesitation  now,  he  was  going  to  Con- 
stance with  a  clear  conscience  for  company.  There 
was  no  accusing  thought  of  Dorothy  at  his  elbow; 
he  was  free,  free  as  air,  and,  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  left  Eckington,  felt  glad  of  it.  Youth  is 
quick  to  recognise  the  inevitable.  If  he  had  lost  in 
romance,  he  had  gained  in  freedom,  and  that 
morning,  as  the  cold  air  nipped  him  to  a  spurt  of 
energy,  he  felt  that  he  could  fling  regrets  to  the 
wind  that  chilled  him.  A  sight  of  Dorothy  wrould 
doubtless  have  overthrown  the  airy  inconsequence 
of  his  humour  then.  But  there  was  no  Dorothy  to 
be  seen,  only  the  little  girls  with  their  novelettes  in 
their  well-worn  muffs,  going  up  to  their  offices  in 
the  West. 

241 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Not  one  of  them  would  have  believed  that  that 
striding  figure,  full  of  energy,  the  collar  of  his  coat 
turned  up,  his  hands  deep-thrust  within  his  pockets, 
could  ever  have  slept  in  the  streets  the  night  before, 
or  was  aching  and  empty  for  a  meal.  Insensibly, 
as  Dicky  passed  them  all,  they  quickened  their  steps. 
He  was  carrying  energy  like  a  current  with  him. 
They  saw  him  cross  the  Strand  and  dart  up  Drury 
Lane.  More  than  one  of  them  perhaps  had  won- 
dered who  he  was. 

Reaching  the  oil  shop  at  the  corner  of  Great 
Queen  Street,  he  did  not  pause  as  he  had  done  the 
night  before,  but  marched  straight  in,  breathing  the 
old  familiar  smells  of  paraffin,  oils  and  soap. 

A  new  boy  was  behind  the  counter,  cleaning  his 
hands  with  an  oily  rag. 

"Run  upstairs,"  said  Dicky,  "and  tell  Miss  Bald- 
win there's  a  gentleman  in  the  shop  to  see  her." 

Energy  was  there  in  his  voice,  too,  and  the  boy 
ran  with  the  oily  rag  in  his  hand. 

He  heard  her  footsteps  descending  the  stairs. 
With  heart  beating,  he  stood  there  waiting  until 
she  should  turn  the  corner  of  that  bundle  of  brooms. 

And  when  she  saw  who  it  was  her  heart  was  up 
in  her  mouth,  too. 

"Dicky!"  she  cried. 

A  welcome  is  worth  having  on  an  empty  stomach. 
He  swallowed  his  emotion,  felt  giddy,  and  knew 
just  how  hungry  he  was. 

242 


CHAPTER   V 

EXCITED  and  with  an  eagerness  she  had  no 
reason  or  desire  to  conceal,  she  took  him 
upstairs  to  the  sitting  room  above  the  shop, 
holding  his  hand,  dragging  him  after  her. 

"Mother's  in  bed,"  she  said.  "Went  to  a  theay- 
ter  last  night;  goes  out  with  some  friends  after- 
wards to  their  'ouse  and  doesn't  get  'ome  till  two 
o'clock  this  morning.  Coin'  it,  ain't  she?  My 
Lord!  You've  come  back  again!  Never  thought 
you  would,  yer  know.  Never  thought  it — not  once." 

She  closed  the  door  of  the  sitting  room  behind 
them  and  came  back  to  take  a  long  look  at  him. 
Just  gladness,  just  pleasure  would  not  describe  the 
joy  she  had  in  seeing  him  once  more.  She  had  kept 
her  promise,  had  been  true  to  the  letter  of  her 
word.  From  the  day  when  they  had  parted  she 
had  never  sent  for  him,  never  troubled  him;  had 
counted  him  lost  and  steeled  herself  with  a  fine  cour- 
age to  face  the  knowledge  that  her  heart  was  bank- 
rupt. 

Now  he  had  returned — why,  she  did  not  wait  to 
question.  He  was  there,  of  his  own  accord  and  all 
the  hope  of  which  her  nature  was  possessed  rose 

243 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

triumphantly  to  greet  him.  Yet  what  it  was  she 
hoped  for,  she  could  not  have  said.  Every  sensa- 
tion was  nameless  to  her  in  those  moments,  except 
the  joy  of  seeing  him. 

"'Eavens!  This  is  good!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  turning  his  face 
to  the  light.  "How  are  you  gettin'  on?  What  are 
you  doin'?  Still  at  Greenwich — all  ships,  ain't  it? 
Sold  any  more  pictures?  D'yer  remember  that  man 
we'd  a  row  with — the  picture-framer?  Saw  'im  the 
other  day — passed  'im  in  the  street.  You  should 
'ave  seen  'im  look  at  me.  What  did  I  do?  I  burst 
out  laughin'.  Why — what's  the  matter  with  yer? 
You  look  as  white  as  a  sheet.  What's  'appened?" 

He  smiled — smiled  with  as  much  confidence  as  he 
could. 

"I'm  so  hungry,"  he  said  simply.  "I  haven't  had 
anything  since  yesterday  morning,  and  last  night  I 
had  to  sleep  out  in  the  streets" — he  laughed  now  as 
he  thought  of  it — "a  doorway  in  Wigmore  Street." 

She  asked  no  more  questions,  where  a  man  would 
have  asked  a  thousand.  The  next  instant  she  had 
seated  him  in  a  chair  and  had  left  the  room.  Be- 
fore almost  he  had  understood  her  going  she  was 
back  again  with  plates  and  cup  and  saucer  in  her 
hand.  Not  another  word  did  she  say  to  him  until 
he  was  seated  at  the  table,  eagerly  eating  the  food 
she  had  placed  before  him. 

To  wait  upon  his  urgent  needs,  to  minister  to  his 
244 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

slightest  wants,  indeed,  she  was  in  her  element  then. 
There  might  be  no  help  she  could  give  him  in  his 
work,  but  this,  with  nothing  forgotten,  not  a  thing 
he  might  ask  for  omitted,  here  she  could  excel.  By 
the  side  of  his  plate  she  placed  matches  and  a  packet 
of  cigarettes  and  then  sat  down  to  watch  him  eat. 
When  for  a  while  he  had  eaten  in  silence,  he  looked 
up  at  her,  into  her  eyes,  smiling  with  all  self-confi- 
dence returned.  Her  heart  jumped  up  to  meet  that 
glance,  for  it  was  into  her  eyes  he  had  looked. 

"I  wonder  if  the  poor  wretch  I  slept  with  last 
night  is  eating  a  breakfast  like  this  now,"  said  he, 
and,  once  she  heard  him  speak  of  his  own  accord, 
she  knew  she  could  question  him  then,  could  gratify 
the  curiosity  that  had  begun  to  burn  in  her  from 
the  moment  she  had  laid  the  last  dish  on  the  table. 

From  the  day  he  entered  Monsieur  Marco's  atelier 
to  the  day  he  left,  he  told  her  everything.  But  now, 
had  he  had  judgment  of  himself,  he  would  have 
been  amazed  at  the  humour  he  found  in  it  all. 
Again  and  again  he  brought  the  laughter  to  her  lips 
as  he  described  that  amazing  trickster  with  his  yards 
of  pictures  and  his  consummate  conceit.  And  when 
it  came  to  describing  the  portrait  of  Madame 
Marco  in  her  gaudy  gown,  he  laughed  aloud  him- 
self, was  like  a  boy  again,  and  all  because  he  had 
learnt  the  give  and  take  in  life  from  the  woman 
with  whom  he  had  shared  his  doorway,  all  because 
chance  had  led  him  into  the  circus  where  every  man 

245 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

who  will  may  be  a  clown  to  make  life  go  the  merrier. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she 
asked,  not  daring  to  hope  that  he  would  ever  be  a 
debtor  to  her  bounty  once  again.  "Are  yer  goin' 
'ome?"  With  apprehension  quivering  in  her,  play- 
ing a  thin  note  of  trepidation  in  her  voice,  she  ut- 
tered the  thing  she  feared.  When  he  shook  his 
head,  her  eyes  lit  up  once  more;  she  drew  the  breath 
deep  down  into  her  breast. 

"I've  been  home,"  said  he.  "I  went  home  about 
a  fortnight  ago.  I  was  going  to  stay  the  night. 
That  was  my  idea,  but  the  pater  didn't  seem  to 
share  it." 

"  'E  turned  you  out?" 

"Something  like  that." 

"My  Gawd!    What  a  father!" 

"I  don't  believe  he  liked  it  any  more  than  I  did," 
said  Dicky,  for  now,  in  retrospect,  he  seemed  to 
understand  that  stormy  interview  better  than  he 
had. 

"What  did  your  sister  say?" 

"She  was  for  coming  with  me." 

"So  would  I.     I  like  your  sister." 

"Yes — but  surely  that  would  have  been  too  ter- 
rible for  him.  Anne's  all  he's  got  now." 

"And  the  other?     What  did  she  say?" 

Here  was  the  thin  note  of  apprehension  once 
more.  He  had  told  her  all  about  Dorothy;  it  was 

246 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Dorothy  she  knew  he  had  been  home  to  Eckington 
to  see. 

"She  didn't  know,"  said  Dicky. 

"Didn't  know?" 

"No — it  happened  after  I'd  seen  her." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  back  and  tell  'er?" 

"Because" — he  screwed  up  his  lips,  but  there  was 
no  good  his  pretending  that  he  did  not  care,  that 
he  had  not  been  hurt,  or  had  forgotten  the  pain  of  it 
by  this — "because  I'd  found  out  already  that  she — 
didn't  care  for  me  any  more.  She's,  going  to  be 
married." 

Then  he  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled — a  smile 
that  would  have  brought  the  heart  out  of  any  woman 
with  less  sympathy  to  her  nature  than  Constance. 
For,  beside  the  pain  she  felt  for  him,  there  cried 
aloud  in  her  the  triumphant  belief  that  she  could 
be  to  him  what  no  Dorothy  had  ever  been;  beside 
the  memory  she  knew  he  still  cherished  was  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  there  beside  her,  without  a 
home,  without  money,  even  hungry  for  a  meal,  per- 
haps hungry  for  love  as  well,  and  she  was  there  to 
give  him  one  and  all  of  them. 

So,  when  she  realised  what  he  had  told  her,  out 
came  her  hand  across  the  table,  and  the  grip  of 
her  fingers  was  better  than  words.  With  instinctive 
discretion,  she  made  no  comment.  It  is  not  often 
one  woman  knows  when  to  refrain  from  criticising 

247 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

another;  but  here  Constance  was  wise  with  the  wis- 
dom of  love,  and  she  was  silent. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she  asked 
at  last. 

He  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"To  tell  you  the  honest  truth,"  said  he,  "I  was 
going  on  sleeping  in  the  streets  like  I  did  last  night 
till  Mr.  Nibbs  came  back  to  the  shop  again.  Other 
people  do,  my  goodness !  It  isn't  such  a  terrible 
thing,  after  all.  It's  worst  just  now,  I  suppose,  this 
time  of  year.  But  it  won't  be  for  long,  you  know. 
Mr.  Nibbs'll  be  back  in  a  few  days;  I  can  work  in 
his  shop  then  if  I  can't  get  anything  else.  Anyhow, 
I've  paid  for  my  night  classes.  They  can't  stop  me 
from  going  to  them.  Food's  the  only  thing.  I 
had  to  come  to  you  this  morning." 

She  let  him  say  it  all,  smiling  as  she  listened.  It 
was  such  nonsense,  such  delightful  nonsense  when 
he  talked  like  that.  It  was  so  sublimely  conceivable 
to  think  of  her  lying  in  a  warm  bed  while  all  night 
long  he  shivered  in  an  open  doorway.  When  he 
had  done  talking  his  nonsense,  she  laughed. 

"Now  you  listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "Up  in  the 
top  of  the  'ouse  there's  a  bedroom  where  I  stood 
once,  'olding  a  slop-pail  while  you  put  a  little  'uman 
interest  into  yer  picture — that's  where  you're  goin' 
to  sleep,  an'  no  foolin'  about  it,  either.  D'yer  think 
I  could  sleep  'ere  for  five  minutes  if  I  thought  you 

248 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

was  out  in  the  streets?  Where's  yer  bag  of 
things?" 

"I  left  it  at  the  Polytechnic  last  night." 

"Well,  you  bloomin'  well  go  and  get  it,  and  I'll 
tell  mother  she's  got  a  lodger." 

"But,  Connie,  I — I  can't  pay." 

"No — and  'oo's  asked  yer  to?  Don't  be  such 
a  blitherin'  idiot.  'Ow  can  yer  pay  when  yer  'aven't 
got  it?  If  it's  got  to  be  paid,  I'll  pay  it.  But  I 
know  what  mother'll  say.  Do  you  remember  the 
day  you  were  on  yer  bed  cryin',  an'  she  come  up 
and  found  yer  there?" 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"Well,  she  ain't  forgotten  that  yet.  There's 
somethin'  .of  the  old  fool  in  mother.  She's  got  a 
'eart,  soft  like  putty.  She  ain't  fit  to  be  left  alone, 
yer  know.  You  go  and  fetch  yer  bag  of  things  and 
come  back  'ere.  I'll  see  to  'er." 

With  the  comforting  sensation  of  being  managed 
over  matters  he  was  far  too  inconsequent  to  manage 
for  himself,  Dicky  departed,  and,  when  he  returned, 
found  Mrs.  Baldwin  with  her  hair  in  curling  pins, 
serving  in  the  shop. 

A  broad  smile  of  welcome  spread  over  her  face 
as  she  saw  him.  She  winked  knowingly,  as  though 
something  were  up,  and,  when  the  customer  'had 
gone,  beckoned  him  to  a  back  part  of  the  premises, 
where  they  were  hidden  behind  the  bundles  of 
brooms  and  all  those  numberless  things  that  de- 

249 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

pend  from  the  ceiling  in  an  overcrowded  oil-man's 
shop. 

"Don't  tell  Constance,"  she  whispered.  "Don't 
say  a  word  about  it  to  'er  when  you  go  upstairs,  but 
you're  to  'ave  that  room  you  'ad  before,  with  break- 
fast just  the  same,  and  I  don't  want  no  pay  for  it; 
but  for  Gawd's  sake  don't  tell  Constance !  She'd 
let  in  to  me  like  a  cat  for  givin'  that  room  away 
for  nothing.  She  told  me  about  yer — yer  must  'a 
been  cold.  Thank  Gawd,  I've  never  slep'  in  the 
streets  meself.  I  said  we'd  'ave  to  do  somethin' 
for  yer,  and  she  says — sharp  at  once,  yer  know,  like 
she  is,  'Don't  you  go  and  let  'im  'ave  the  room  for 
nothin','  she  says.  Well,  I  'adn't  thought  of  that, 
yer  see;  but  that's  the  only  thing  to  do.  It  don't 
cost  me  nothin',  not  'avin'  any  lodger  there  now. 
'Don't  you  go  and  let  'im  'ave  the  room  for  nothin',' 
she  says — but  that's  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,  and  you 
let  on  you're  payin'  me  later,  see.  I  don't  ever 
want  the  money.  Gawd  knows  I  should  be  glad  of 
anyone  givin'  me  a  bed  if  I  was  down  an'  out.  But 
you  let  on,  see — 'cos  she's  got  'er'  ead  on  'er  shoul- 
ders. She  don't  give  things  away  for  nuthin'.  She's 
got  more  sense'n  what  I  'ave.  Now  up  yer  go  and 
put  yer  bag  in  your  old  room.  The  bed's  not  made 
up  yet — but  I'll  see  to  it  at  dinner  time." 

It  all  took  Dicky's  breath  away.  When  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  he  met  Constance,  he  scarcely  knew 
what  to  say. 

250 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"I've  got  to  put  my  bag  in  the  room,"  he  replied. 

"And  tell  me  nothin'  about  it — eh?  She's  an 
easy  one  to  manage,  she  is.  Just  tell  'er  not  to  do 
a  thin',  and  I'm  blowed  if  she  can  'elp  'erself  from 
doin'  it." 

She  stopped  suddenly.  The  look  of  laughter 
went  out  of  her  eyes.  She  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"Dicky!"  she  whispered. 

For  an  instant,  as  he  paused,  he  thought  of  Dor- 
othy— then  thought  no  more.  It  was  not  only  his 
breakfast  he  had  needed.  There  flashed  across  his 
mind  what  Madame  Marco  had  said.  Madame 
Marco  was  right. 


17 


CHAPTER   VI 

FOR  the  first  few  days  Dicky  and  Constance 
were  as  shy  of  each  other  as  children  to 
whom  the  world  is  new  and  every  emotion 
a  magic  revelation.  By  silent  and  a  common  con- 
sent they  never  alluded  to  their  last  parting.  Al- 
most it  might  never  have  happened.  They  might 
have  been  meeting  for  the  first  time,  only  that  the 
spirit  of  the  inevitable  was  conscious  to  both  of 
them  whenever  they  met  or  spoke.  It  was  inevi- 
table that  the  day  would  come  when  this  barrier  of 
reserve  would  tumble  before  the  importunate  de- 
mands of  nature.  With  trembling  anticipation, 
thrilling  at  a  look,  both  waited  until  that  day  should 
come,  half  afraid  to  face  it,  wholly  joyed  in  their 
hearts  for  the  moment  when  it  should  be. 

When,  almost  distantly,  they  bid  each  other  good- 
night, departing  to  their  rooms,  it  was  with  pulses 
throbbing,  to  lie  awake  until  the  small  hours  brought 
them  sleep.  Through  all  her  songs  in  the  music- 
hall,  Constance  sang  to  her  thoughts  of  him.  In 
all  his  work  at  the  night  classes  Dicky  was  conscious 
of  her. 

Both  of  them  were  living  at  the  very  jaws  of  a 
252 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

volcano;  both  of  them  could  feel  the  burning  earth 
beneath  their  feet.  Yet  the  days  sped  on,  and 
Dicky  still  trembled  on  the  verge;  only  in  moments 
dared  Constance  let  her  eyes  meet  with  his. 

"Don't  yer  like  'im  so  much  as  yer  used  to?" 
asked  Mrs.  Baldwin  one  day. 

And,  being  that  soft-hearted  fool  of  a  mother  to 
whom  no  daughter  in  her  senses  bares  her  heart, 
Constance  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  like  'im  well  enough." 
'  'E's  quite  a  gentleman,  yer  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Baldwin,  and,  without  appreciating  why,  Constance 
found  that  chilled  her  to  the  heart.  The  blood  ran 
with  a  sudden  shudder  through  her  veins.  She 
shivered. 

"Got  a  chill?"  asked  her  mother. 

"Ghost  walking  over  my  grave,"  she  replied. 

For  the  moment  she  tried  bravely  to  face  the 
thought  that  had  chilled  her;  then,  with  the  philos- 
ophy of  one  who  needs  no  devil  till  the  journey's 
done,  she  put  it  out  of  her  mind. 

It  was  into  the  future,  almost  unconsciously,  she 
had  looked.  And  it  is  the  future  that  every  woman 
dreads.  The  accumulation  of  years,  the  years  that 
will  be  good  and  the  years  that  will  be  bad,  they 
all  lie  there  in  wait  for  her.  For  the  full  bloom 
of  her  youth,  that  is  her  greatest  achievement. 
When  that  is  passed,  the  best  is  a  graceful  failure 

253 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

when  the  heart  may  still  be  young  and  the  eyes 
deny  it. 

Yet  it  was  not  so  far  as  this  that  Constance 
looked.  In  that  moment  she  had  seen  an  end  of 
joy  before  those  years  had  run,  then  thrust  the  ugly 
vision  from  her  mind.  It  is  given  to  every  woman 
to  prophesy  out  of  her  heart.  Constance  had  been 
prophetic  then. 

That  night  she  lay  long  awake,  but  in  the  morn- 
ing the  present  was  with  her  again.  Once  more  she 
found  herself  on  the  very  verge  of  that  moment 
which  she  knew  must  come,  and,  as  her  eyes  met 
Dicky's  across  the  breakfast  table,  involuntarily  she 
drew  a  deeper  breath. 

It  was  three  days  later  when  Mrs.  Baldwin  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  going  to  a  theatre  again, 
of  stopping  out  with  her  friends,  maybe  to  supper, 
that  the  same  thought  rushed  simultaneously  to  their 
minds.  Dicky  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  Constance 
who  succeeded.  With  a  voice  sounding  unnatural 
to  her,  unnatural  to  the  quick  ears  of  Dicky,  too, 
she  teased  her  mother  for  her  frivolity. 

"Nice  way  to  go  on  at  your  age,"  said  she. 
"Where  are  you  goin'?" 

"Over  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle.  I  like  them 
melodramas,  yer  know.  I  suppose  they  couldn't 
'appen  really,  but  they  don't  waste  no  time  talkin'. 
There's  always  somethin'  to  watch.  Cheatin'  at 
cards  an'  fightin' — that's  what  I  like.  Makes  yer 

254 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

feel  as  if  yer  was  seem'  somethin'  for  yer  money — 
don't  it?" 

This  was  an  evening  when  Dicky  had  no  night 
class  to  attend.  Without  telling  Constance,  he  went 
to  the  Holborn  Music  Hall,  where  she  was  then 
appearing,  and,  taking  a  seat  in  the  gallery,  waited 
for  her  entrance. 

In  the  stifling  atmosphere  he  sat  with  the  perspi- 
ration glittering  on  his  forehead,  drenching  his 
hands.  He  knew,  as  Constance  knew  as  well,  that 
that  evening  was  the  moment  in  their  lives  when 
chance  and  fate  and  all  the  destinies  of  lovers  held 
their  offerings  in  their  hands. 

As  the  curtain  rang  up  on  her  number  he  swal- 
lowed nervously,  leaning  forward  in  his  seat.  Hers 
was  not  a  popular  turn.  She  came  on  early 
in  the  evening,  but  there  was  always  that  in  her 
appearance  which  called  for  a  flutter  of  applause. 
She  had  found  the  art  of  making  herself  attractive 
to  these  people.  Her  figure  was  worth  all  the 
trouble  she  took  to  dress  it,  the  shoulders  full,  the 
ankles  fine,  the  neck  and  head  well  set  to  make  men 
pleased  with  her.  Beauty  might  never  be  granted 
her,  though  her  eyes  had  beauty  in  themselves.  Big 
brown  eyes  she  had,  keen  with  pride,  sparkling  with 
courage.  Her  mouth  was  large,  still  there  was 
beauty  there,  never  the  pursed  prettiness,  but  a  gen- 
erosity that  none  could  fail  to  see.  It  was  her  nose 
that  cancelled  beauty,  yet  made  the  charm  and  char- 

255 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

acter  of  her  face.  With  a  sudden  unexpected  lift, 
it  turned  up  to  irresistible  humour.  You  saw  that 
there  all  beauty  had  been  lost,  yet  never  missed  it 
for  the  character  you  found  instead. 

This  was  the  impression  which  brought  that  will- 
ing loan  of  approval  from  everyone.  Before  she 
had  sung  a  word  they  were  prepared  to  like  her, 
and  when  Dicky  heard  the  clapping  of  hands  about 
him,  with  hot  cheeks  he  clapped  his  perspiring  hands 
as  well. 

And  then  she  sang — one  of  those  songs  which, 
like  Monsieur  Marco's  pictures,  could  have  been 
written  by  the  yard.  Dicky  felt  his  cheeks  still  hot- 
ter as  he  listened.  He  knew  she  was  no  good.  Not 
all  the  passionate  anticipation  in  his  mind  could  de- 
ceive him  as  to  that.  Yet  his  heart  went  out  to  her, 
nevertheless,  as  she  gave  it  forth.  It  was  the  pluck 
of  it  he  felt,  no  other  quality  but  that.  Often  she 
had  told  him  how  she  knew  she  could  not  sing,  and 
that  every  time  she  went  on  to  the  stage  she  more 
clearly  realised  her  hopeless  inefficiency.  He  knew 
she  was  trembling  then  as  she  sang,  for,  as  she 
had  once  said  to  him,  she  always  thought  of  the 
people  in  the  audience  who  could  probably  sing 
much  better  than  she  and  what  damned  cheek  they 
must  think  it.  Never  receiving  that  full  burst  of 
applause,  she  always  anticipated  the  sound  of  hiss- 
ing when  her  song  was  done. 

256 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I  think  if  I  was  'issed,"  she  had  told  him,  "I 
could  never  show  my  face  on  the  stage  again." 

It  was  that  he  knew  she  was  anticipating  then. 
Wherefore,  when  the  last  chords  were  played, 
Dicky  applauded  with  all  his  might.  Indeed, 
it  was  forced  from  him  by  the  realisation  of  her 
pluck,  whereupon,  caught  by  the  spirit  of  his  en- 
thusiasm, there  set  up  a  clapping  of  hands  all  round 
him.  The  curtain  went  up  again.  She  came  on  once 
more,  and  bowed.  At  last  the  conductor  in  the  or- 
chestra nodded  his  head,  he  tapped  his  baton  on  the 
rest.  She  had  received  an  encore.  She  was  to  sing 
again. 

As  soon  as  her  turn  was  over,  Dicky  left  his  seat 
in  the  gallery,  coming  downstairs  out  into  the  cooler 
air.  He  felt  he  could  bear  the  stifling  atmos- 
phere no  longer.  At  that  height  above  the  stage 
his  senses  seemed  to  be  swimming,  yet  he  knew  it 
was  not  the  height  alone,  but  the  thoughts  of  Con- 
stance, and  the  anticipation  of  that  evening  which 
was  theirs. 

No  word  had  passed  between  them  as  to  how 
they  should  spend  it  together.  They  had  been  too 
shy  even  for  that. 

"Have  you  a  night  class  this  evening?" 

This  was  the  only  question  she  had  put  to  him, 
and,  when  he  had  shaken  his  head,  both  of  them 
had  understood  without  further  need  of  speech. 

Waiting  upon  the  other  side  of  the  street,  it  was 
257 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

his  intention  when  she  came  out  to  accompany  her 
home.  But  those  moments  before  she  made  her 
appearance  were  long  in  passing.  His  heart  jumped 
up,  quickening  his  breath  at  the  sight  of  every  fig- 
ure emerging  from  the  dark  passage  that  led  to  the 
stage  door,  so  that,  when  at  last  she  did  appear,  he 
felt  the  nervous  sickness  of  a  lover  who  knows  that 
the  hour  of  his  deliverance  has  come.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  could  not  move  to  follow  her,  but  stood 
there  with  leaping  pulses,  watching  her  as  she  hur- 
ried away  in  the  direction  of  Drury  Lane. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Great  Queen  Street  she 
was  but  thirty  yards  ahead  of  him.  He  slackened 
his  pace  and  let  her  enter  the  house,  watched  her 
close  the  door  before  he  came  up.  Then,  when  it 
seemed  he  had  waited  a  lifetime,  he,  too,  went  in, 
slowly  mounting  the  stairs  to  the  sitting  room.  He 
was  even  passing  the  door,  was  even  continuing  his 
way  to  that  attic  room  above,  when  her  voice  called 
him. 

"Are  you  going  upstairs  to  work?"  she  asked. 

"I  was,"  said  he. 

She  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"Can  I  be  any  good?  Do  you  want  me  to  pose 
for  anything?" 

"No — I'm  cutting  a  wood-block." 

He  felt  it  was  going  all  wrong;  that,  unless  he 
said  something,  he  would  find  himself  making  his 
way  up  to  that  attic  room  alone.  He  tried  to  think 

258 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  something  that  might  be  said  by  him,  but 
his  mind  refused  to  act.  It  was  Constance  who  was 
equal  to  the  occasion,  the  danger  of  which  she,  too, 
had  realised  herself. 

"  'Ave  a  bit  of  supper  first,"  she  said.  "I  brought 
a  bit  of  fried  fish  in." 

He  watched  her  laying  the  table,  as  she  had  laid 
it  that  morning  for  his  breakfast,  his  eyes  taking 
in  every  perfection  that  he  found  in  her. 

'  'Ad  an  encore  to-night,"  she  said,  as  she  sat 
down. 

"I  know,"  said  he.    "I  was  there." 

"Where?" 

Her  cheeks  were  scarlet.  She  knew  what  he  must 
have  thought.  She  could  face  those  people  in  the 
theatre,  but  not  him. 

"Up  in  the  gallery." 

"Why,  all  the  clappin'  came  from  there!" 

"Did  it?"  said  he. 

"Did  you  do  it?" 

"No — we  all  did.    Everybody  liked  it." 

It  flew  to  her  tongue  to  ask  him  did  he,  but  she 
shut  her  lips  in  time.  If  he  did  not,  it  would  be 
pain  to  him  to  say  so.  With  an  effort,  she  went  on 
with  her  meal  in  silence. 

"Why  didn't  you  wait  to  see  it  all?"  she  enquired 
presently.  "There  are  some  good  turns  later." 

"It  was  the  heat  up  there  in  the  gallery,  I  sup- 
259 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

pose,"  he  replied.  "I  felt  as  if  my  head  were  going 
to  burct." 

"Did  you  go  away  directly  after  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Funny  I  didn't  see  you  comin'  back." 

He  caught  the  sound  of  that  note  of  excitement 
in  her  voice.  She  had  realised  he  had  been  there 
only  to  see  her.  The  thought  came  to  him  then  to 
put  out  his  hand  across  the  table,  but  she  had  risen 
and  was  beginning  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

Later  when  the  supper  was  done  and  their  ciga- 
rettes were  lighted,  he  crossed  deliberately  to  the 
lamp  that  stood  on  the  modern  mahogany  side- 
board, as  deliberately  turned  it  down,  as  deliberately 
put  it  out. 

When  he  turned  she  was  standing  there,  black 
against  the  firelight,  and  even  at  that  distance  he 
knew  she  was  trembling  as  much  as  he. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  she  asked.  Her  voice 
was  on  her  breath.  She  had  no  power  to  produce 
the  full  note  of  it. 

"Because  the  firelight's  nicer.  Everything  in  that 
lamplight's  hard — it's  hard  even  to  talk.  Do  you 
mind?" 

She  shook  her  head,  pulled  an  armchair  out  by 
the  fireside,  and  looked  to  him  to  take  it. 

"You,"  said  he. 

Her  head  gave  him  the  negative  again.  Before 
he  could  insist,  she  had  dropped  to  the  floor  and 

260 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

was  settling  her  feet  like  a  tailor's,  crossed  before 
her. 

For  a  long  while  they  were  silent.  In  such  a 
light,  at  such  a  moment,  speech  is  indeed  a  superflu- 
ous thing.  The  firelight  danced  on  their  faces;  on 
hers,  watching  the  bubbling  gases  that  hissed  and 
flamed  and  blew  out  their  thin  streams  of  smoke; 
on  his,  that  gazed  in  passionate  contemplation  of 
her.  There  was  no  need  for  her  to  look  up.  She 
knew  he  was  watching  her  and  left  it  to  chance  who 
should  speak  first  or  what  should  be  said.  Those 
were  moments  of  absolute  contentment.  She  was 
sure  of  him  then.  It  needed  only  the  waiting,  and 
such  was  the  joy  of  that  delay  she  would  not  have 
lost  it  or  altered  one  instant  of  it  then. 

Even  at  last,  when  Dicky  did  speak,  she  never 
turned  her  head,  but  still  looked  on  into  the  heat 
of  the  glowing  embers,  knowing  that  this  was  the 
moment  of  her  heart  and  soul's  achievement,  that  all 
the  past  and  all  the  future  were  as  one  in  her  then. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  after  that  time — 
when  I  went  down  to  Greenwich,  after  we'd  said 
good-bye — do  you  know  that  I  suffered  terribly  with 
remorse?" 

"I  knew  you  would,"  she  replied. 

"Did  you?" 

"No." 

"Never?" 

"Never." 

261 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  glanced  at  her  face,  still  gazing  at  the  fire. 

"When  I  went  home  that  time,"  he  continued 
presently,  "I — I  told  Dorothy — not  who  it  was,  but 
I  told  her." 

Now  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Before  she'd  told  yer  about  the  other  man?" 

"Yes." 

He  might  have  seen  her  eyes  glitter 

"You're  not  a  funk — are  yer?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  he.  "I  couldn't  have  let 
her  think — that  there'd  been  nothing  like  that." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"That  she'd  guessed  it  all  along — that  she'd 
known  when  I  came  to  London  that  it  would  hap- 
pen." 

Constance  looked  up  quickly  into  his  eyes. 

"Oh — she'd  guessed  it — 'ad  she?  What  'ad  she 
got  to  guess  by?  Eh?  How  did  she  know  yer  so 
well  as  to  guess  that?" 

Dicky  looked  back  straightly  at  her,  believing 
then  that  he  might  lose  her.  There  was  no  need  to 
answer  her  question.  He  realised  she  knew  without 
his  answering. 

"Now — do  you  hate  me,  too?"  he  said  at  last. 

She  rose  from  her  tailor's  posture,  crawled  across 
the  floor  to  his  side,  leaning  her  elbows  on  his  knees 
and  staring  up  close  into  his  face. 

"I  wouldn't  care  what  you  did,"  she  whispered. 
"I  don't  believe  yer  could  do  anythin'  that  wasn't 

262 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

straight.  And,  thank  God,  I  don't  believe  yer  could 
do  anythin'  as  wasn't  'uman.  She'd  known  that 
about  me  all  the  time,  'ad  she?  Well — I'd  known 
that  all  the  time  about  'er.  Women  know  about 
women  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other. 
They  don't  want  to  meet  each  other.  It's  quite 
enough  to  meet  the  man  as  soine  of  'em  'as  been  in 
love  with." 

She  lifted  her  elbows  and  her  arms  crept  round 
his  neck. 

'"Ate  yer?"  she  whispered.  "My  Gawd!  I 
shouldn't  'ave  thought  it  was  possible  to  love  a  man 
like  I  love  you.  You're  such  a  kid  and  such  a  man, 
and  you're  cleverer  than  anybody  I've  ever  met  in 
all  my  life — I  know  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying — 
but " 

And  so  she  murmured  on,  almost  with  incoher- 
ence, in  the  overwhelming  burden  of  her  love.  She 
had  no  words  to  speak  it  all,  just  looks  and  eager 
gestures,  broken  phrases  and  caresses  of  her  hands. 

And  Dicky,  who  had  thought  he  had  known  what 
love  could  be,  was  bewildered,  overcome.  The  halt- 
ing words  broke  on  his  ears,  the  caressing  hands 
touched  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not  answer,  had  no 
power  to  bid  her  stay.  If  this  was  the  love  a  woman 
could  give,  he  wondered  had  Dorothy  ever  loved 
him  at  all. 

"Are  yer  ever  goin'  to  feel  remorse  now?"  she 
whispered. 

263 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

It  was  then  amazement  left  him.  He  took  her 
madly  in  his  arms.  It  was  not  only  she  who  could 
love;  it  was  not  she  alone  whose  hands  could  caress, 
whose  lips  could  kiss.  Now  his  hands  wildly  were 
stroking  her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  her  hair.  He  held  her 
and  she  was  his.  He  let  her  go,  then  caught  her  to 
him  again.  No  moment  was  there  for  her  to 
breathe.  He  crushed  the  breath  from  her  and  heard 
the  broken  sobs  by  which  she  tried  in  vain  to  re- 
gain it. 

"My  little  child,"  he  muttered,  "my  little  wife!" 

He  knew  what  he  had  said.  With  full  intention 
he  had  meant  to  say  it;  yet  at  the  sound  of  the  word 
involuntarily  his  arms  relaxed  their  hold.  In  that 
instant  she  was  free  of  him  and,  with  panting  breath, 
was  standing  there  staring  with  wonder  into  his 
face. 

"Dicky!"  she  whispered. 

"I  meant  it,"  said  he  quickly.  "I  meant  it  then 
and  I  mean  it  now.  Why?  Why  do  you  look  like 
that?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  slowly  she  dropped  down 
again  to  her  posture  on  the  floor. 

The  strain  had  snapped.  He  had  snapped  it — 
snapped  it  with  the  weight  of  something  more  won- 
derful than  she  had  ever  dreamed.  For  a  moment 
he  stayed  where  she  had  left  him,  then,  realising  by 
instinct  part  of  all  that  was  passing  in  her  mind,  he 
knelt  down  on  the  floor  beside  her. 

264 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I  mean  it,"  he  whispered  again.  "Why  do  you 
think  I  don't?  My  God!  I  never  meant  anything 
more  in  my  life.  We're  going  to  be  married — at 
once  if  we  can." 

She  gave  no  answer,  but  looked  up  to  his  eyes. 
For  a  moment  he  saw  in  hers  that  gratitude  which 
only  women  know  the  meaning  of;  then  tears 
flooded  it  out.  He  found  her  crying  and  sobbing  in 
his  arms. 


CHAPTER   VII 

DICKY  had  placed  a  temptation  before  the 
mind  of  Constance  which  was  the  more 
subtle  and  the  more  poignant  because  of 
its  absolute  surprise.  This  talk  of  marriage  she 
never  for  one  moment  had  expected.  It  had  never 
entered  her  thoughts.  He  was  quite  a  gentleman, 
Mrs.  Baldwin  had  said  it;  but  she  had  known  it 
from  the  first.  The  highest  summit  of  her  hope 
when  he  had  left  the  oil  shop  in  Drury  Lane  was 
that  one  day  he  would  return,  if  only  for  so  brief  a 
time  as  that  which  they  had  enjoyed  together. 

Even  when  she  had  learnt  from  him  of  Dorothy, 
had  realised  that  then  no  rival  stood  upon  her  path, 
her  greatest  ambition  was  that  the  months  might 
slip  by  into  a  year  or  more,  before  the  inevitable 
future  took  him  from  her. 

Then,  out  of  the  radiant  blue  had  come  this  bolt 
from  heaven.  He  had  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  almost  all  that  night  she  lay  awake,  never  once 
closing  her  eyes,  but  counting  in  the  fever  of  her 
mind  the  rights  that  were  hers  to  consent,  then 
weighing  them  involuntarily  against  obstacles  her 
conscience  thrust  before  her  eyes. 

266 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  chime 
of  the  Law  Courts  clock  had  just  dimly  reached  her 
ears  and  then  was  drowned  by  all  the  other  bells  of 
Covent  Garden,  she  crept  out  of  bed  to  light  her 
candles.  Placing  them  on  the  dressing-table,  she 
stood  before  the  mirror,  appealing  to  her  beauty 
for  the  answer  she  most  yearned  to  give. 

Her  eyes  looked  tired,  but  that  was  want  of  sleep. 
In  the  morning  they  would  be  bright  again.  But 
when  they  were  often  tired  and  the  years  had  gath- 
ered in  them,  would  he  be  proud  of  her  then?  What 
help  would  she  be  to  him?  There  were  painters 
she  had  heard  spoken  of  almost  with  reverence, 
surely  with  respect.  How  would  she  seem  as  a  wife 
of  such  a  one?  Through  the  thin  gossamer  of  her 
dainty  night  dress  she  could  see  the  dim  line  of  her 
figure.  That  would  be  a  help  to  him.  She  could  sit 
for  his  pictures.  He  could  not  afford  a  model  now. 
When  she  thought  of  any  other  woman  taking 
her  place  in  that  respect  she  knew  that  she  would  be 
at  his  service  at  all  times.  He  was  poor,  too,  and 
she  was  making  money.  There  she  could  help  again. 
But  that  help  could  be  given  without  marriage.  All 
the  things  she  could  possibly  do  for  him,  they  could 
all  be  given  without  that. 

Yet  there  was  herself  to  consider.     But  when  she 

forced  her  mind  to  rise  in  her  own  defence,  there 

came  in  overpowering  realisation  the  knowledge  of 

her  own  inefficiency.    He  had  not  even  said  he  liked 

18  267 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

her  singing.  She  felt  no  interest  in  it  herself.  It 
was  a  means  of  making  money,  relieving  her  of  de- 
pendence upon  her  mother;  but  that  was  all.  There 
was  no  future  for  her.  She  had  fine  eyes,  she  knew 
that,  a  figure,  too,  and  a  mouth  that  brought  men  to 
her.  But  what  would  they  be  in  a  few  years  when 
he  had  conquered  his  world  and  was  great,  as  she 
knew  he  would  be,  amongst  men? 

Clasping  her  hands  about  her  face,  she  cried  out 
in  the  misery  of  her  doubt.  Why  had  he  ever 
spoken  of  it?  Why  had  he  not  left  things  just  as 
they  were,  instead  of  torturing  her  with  this  tempta- 
tion? Why  had  that  word  ever  left  his  lips?  How 
infinitely  simple  it  would  have  been  without  it.  And 
yet,  because  of  it,  she  appreciated  her  love  of  him 
all  the  more. 

There  was  no  one  she  could  ask;  no  one  whose 
advice  would  aid  her  to  decision.  She  knew  well 
what  her  mother  would  say  and,  talking  all  this 
time  as  she  was  to  herself,  she  imitated  her  mother's 
voice  aloud. 

"Well,  my  dear,  if  he's  in  love  with  you — what  I 
mean  it's  'is  lookout — isn't  it?  'Course,  I  knew  'e 
was  a  nice  boy,  I've  always  said  'e  was  a  gentleman, 
and  it  isn't  as  if  you'd  dragged  'im  into  it.  Besides, 
marriage  is  always  better  than  the  other  thing — 
ain't  it?  But  you  must  please  yerself.  I'm  not  the 
match-makin'  sort." 

And  then  she  laughed  at  the  utter  futility  of  it, 
268 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

for  that,  indeed,  was  what  her  mother  would  have 
said.  But  whom  could  she  ask?  Not  Dicky  him- 
self. He  would  not  listen  to  her  for  a  moment. 
He  was  in  love  with  her, — "Thank  God  for  thatl" 
she  muttered, — and  in  the  impetuous  impulse  of  his 
nature  would  hear  no  word  of  doubt,  or  contemplate 
the  faintest  deprecation  of  her  perfections. 

Was  there  no  one,  beknown  to  him  or  her,  who 
could  in  such  a  pass  afford  her  counsel?  She 
thought  of  his  father,  then  laughed  the  thought 
away.  A  man  who  could  turn  his  son  out  of  the 
house  would  never  appreciate  a  situation  such  as 
this.  His  sister?  With  the  gentle  up-bringing  she 
knew  Anne  must  have  had,  no  sympathy  in  the  world 
could  make  her  understand.  No,  a  woman  was  not 
the  person.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  a  woman  in 
this  matter  would  take  her  part.  Such  a  woman  as 
Anne  would  never  consider  any  possibility  but  their 
marriage. 

It  must  be  a  man,  and  a  man  who  knew  Dicky, 
too,  who  had  those  interests  at  heart  which,  against 
all  thought  of  herself,  she  realised  must  be  consid- 
ered. And  as  she  did  this  battle  in  her  mind,  there 
came  to  her  the  remembrance  of  Mr.  Nibbs.  Dicky 
had  told  her  a  great  deal  about  him,  about  the  little 
print-seller's  interest  in  his  work,  of  the  evenings  in 
Greenwich  they  had  spent  together. 

He  was  the  man!  With  sudden  conviction  she 
269 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

deliberately  blew  out  the  candles,  creeping  back  to 
her  bed,  whispering  again  and  again  to  herself, 
"Why  did  he  ask  me,  oh,  why  did  he  ask  me?"  until 
she  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  next  morning  Constance  stayed  late  in 
bed  to  avoid  their  meeting  at  breakfast  and 
when  she  had  made  sure  from  the  sound  of 
hammering  that  Dicky  was  working  on  his  wood- 
block in  the  attic  room  dressed  quickly  and  went  out. 

As  she  passed  through  the  shop  Mrs.  Baldwin 
called  to  her  from  her  desk  behind  the  boxes  of 
scented  soaps. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  in  that  get-up?"  she  en- 
quired. "Got  yer  best  clothes  on,  'aven't  yer?" 

"An'  what's  that  matter?"  demanded  Constance. 
"P'r'aps  I'm  goin'  to  see  an  agent,  yer  never  know." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  humbly  returned  to  the  entries  in 
her  ledger.  She  never  asked  her  daughter  more 
than  one  question  when  she  needed  information. 
One  question  was  sufficient,  to  which  she  either  re- 
ceived the  information  for  which  she  sought,  or  was 
checked,  as  now,  when  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
all  further  enquiry  was  useless. 

"Anythin'  else  you  want  to  know?"  asked  Con- 
stance at  the  door.  She  knew  she  was  being  aggres- 
sive but  could  not  help  herself.  Her  mother's  notice 
of  her  best  clothes  had  brought  to  her  conscious 

271 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

mind  the  reason  she  had  put  them  on.  In  this  going 
to  see  Mr.  Nibbs,  she  was  putting  much  to  the  haz- 
ard, and  human  nature  would  have  been  wanting  in 
her  had  she  not  taken  every  available  advantage. 

Not  daring  to  risk  a  meeting  wiih  Dicky  again 
until  this  mission  was  fulfilled,  she  had  determined 
that  Mr.  Nibbs  should  see  her  at  her  best  and,  in 
the  anticipation  of  their  interview,  her  mind  was 
ready  for  aggression. 

"Anythin'  else  you  want  to  know?"  she  had  asked, 
and  the  line  of  her  upper  lip  was  not  so  full  then  as 
Nature  had  designed  it. 

Her  mother  looked  up,  caught  that  expression, 
and  lost  all  desire  to  be  told  anything.  She  shook 
her  head,  a  moment  later  peering  round  the  pile 
of  soap  boxes  to  make  sure  her  daughter  had  gone. 

"She  'as  got  a  temper,  that  girl,"  she  muttered  to 
herself,  as  she  added  up  a  column  of  farthings. 
"Never  shows  it,  I  will  say,  no  more  than  that;  but 
I  wouldn't  like  to  be  the  one  to  upset  'er."  Having 
delivered  herself  of  which  reflections  aloud,  Mrs. 
Baldwin  found  she  must  add  up  her  line  of  farthings 
again. 

It  was  a  habit  in  the  Baldwin  family  that  the 
women  talked  to  themselves  and  talked  aloud  when 
they  were  alone.  By  some  subconscious  process  of 
the  mind  (for  they  were  never  aware  of  the  habit) 
they  modulated  the  sound  of  their  voices  in  accord- 
ance with  the  occasion.  In  the  quietness  of  the  shop, 

272 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

for  instance,  when  Mrs.  Baldwin  knew  she  was 
alone,  her  voice  rose  up  to  the  pitch  of  ordinary  con- 
versation, while  Constance,  hurrying  through  the 
streets,  reduced  her  voice  to  an  inaudible  murmur. 

"You're  a  little  fool,  aren't  you?"  she  muttered, 
as  she  crossed  the  broad  bridge  where  the  sea-gulls 
were  gathering  from  a  storm  at  sea.  "Only  for  'is 
sayin'  that,  you'd  never  'ave  been  upset  at  all.  Why 
'don't  yer  put  it  out  of  yer  'ead  and  'ave  done  with  it 
straight  away?  Yer  can't  keep  'im  no  better  if  yer 
are  married  to  'im.  Marryin'  'im  won't  stop  'im 
from  bein'  successful,  and  then  it'll  only  be  a  trouble 
for  'im  to  get  rid  of  yer." 

Partly  in  her  own  defence,  she  divined  that  it 
would  be  a  trouble  anyway.  Dicky,  she  believed, 
was  not  the  man  to  treat  a  woman  ill.  Out  of  his 
own  mind,  when  he  knew  she  was  his  without  asking, 
he  had  proposed  marriage  to  her.  He  would  always 
find  it  difficult  to  put  her  away  whatever  their  rela- 
tionship might  be. 

But  why  was  she  worrying  herself  like  this?  Why 
did  she  not  refuse  to  marry  him  straight  away,  let- 
ting it  all  take  the  course  that  she  had  seen  for  it, 
before  he  ever  mentioned  that  binding  word? 

It  would  be  well-nigh  impossible  to  say  what  mar- 
riage means  to  a  woman  when  she  loves.  For  the 
greater  her  love,  the  more  possible  it  is  for  her  to 
understand  that  no  law  but  love  is  binding.  Yet  it 
is  only  the  decadent  woman  who,  falling  by  ill-for- 

273 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

tune  upon  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  her  powers  of 
intelligence,  it  is  only  she  who  would  choose  a  life 
of  freedom.  Nature  does  not  admit  of  many  of 
these,  and  Constance  certainly  was  not  one  of  them. 

In  those  quieter  depths  of  her  heart  where  the 
surface  of  belief  remains  unruffled,  she  knew  that 
she  would  sooner  be  married  than  not.  Yet  beside 
that  belief  and  just  as  sure  as  it,  was  the  conviction 
that  it  was  not  in  honest  justice  to  him. 

So  she  wrestled  in  her  heart  until  the  door  of  the 
little  print-seller's  shop  was  reached  and  she  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  the  round-faced  little  man 
whose  eyes  looked  up  through  the  old  horn  spec- 
tacles, twinkling  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  her. 

"Yes,  miss?"  he  said. 

She  coughed,  nervously,  but  came  quickly  and 
bravely  to  her  point. 

"You've  got  a  picture  in  the  window,"  she  replied, 
"by  Mr.  Furlong." 

He  nodded.  Emily's  eyes  appeared  above  her 
novelette. 

"What,  what  is  it  worth — I  mean,  is  it  very 
good?" 

"I'll  show  it  to  yer,"  said  he. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  detained  him. 

"No,  I've  seen  it  outside.  What  I  want  to  know 
is,  is  it  very  good?" 

"Don't  you  think  it  is,  miss?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  but  then  I  don't  know." 
274 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

It  was  going  to  be  harder  than  she  had  imagined. 
Men  are  never  quick  to  know  that  a  woman  is  not 
saying  all  she  means. 

"Do  you  want  to  buy  it?"  he  enquired. 

"No,  I'm  sorry,  I  couldn't  afford  two  pounds 
ten." 

"It's  worth  it,"  declared  Mr.  Nibbs;  "I  sold  one 
a  week  or  two  ago." 

"Four  weeks,"  said  Emily  from  her  corner. 

"Four  weeks,"  repeated  Mr.  Nibbs. 
'  'Ave  yer  got  any  others?"  Constance  asked. 

"Yes,  a  coloured  wood-block,  the  first  one  'e  ever 
did — the  first  I  ever  see,  too."  He  brought  it  out 
from  the  window.  "What  d'yer  think  of  that? 
That  sort  of  way  of  doin'  'em,  that's  'is  own  idea. 
I  was  all  against  it  at  first,  but  'e  stuck  to  it — would 
'ave  it  'is  own  way.  And  he'll  make  his  name  with 
them  things  one  of  these  days." 

"'Ow  much  is  this?" 

"Ain't  for  sale,  miss.  I  put  it  in  the  window,  but 
it  ain't  for  sale.  Four  people  'ave  asked  me  that 
very  same  question,  but  it  ain't  for  sale.  That's  the 
first  Furlong  coloured  wood-block — sounds  all 
right,  that,  don't  it?" 

He  had  said  this  to  each  of  the  four  people  who 
had  made  similar  t  nquiries  about  it,  and  he  knew 
they  had  all  been  impressed,  especially  the  ones 
making  their  way  over  the  bridge  toward  the 
Strand.  It  impressed  Constance  as  she  heard  it. 

275 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

The  words  fell  on  her  ears  and  sank  dully  to  her 
heart. 

"Yer  think  'e's  goin'  to  be  a  great  man,  then?" 
she  asked. 

"Don't  think  it,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs.  He  suddenly 
leant  across  the  counter.  "Look  'ere,"  he  said,  in 
a  lower  tone,  "I'll  tell  yer  somethin'  about  'im." 
And  forthwith,  unable  to  keep  it  to  himself,  he  told 
of  Dicky's  first  visit  to  his  shop,  of  how  he  had  rec- 
ognised the  genius  in  him,  had  known  it  from  the 
moment  he  entered  the  door. 

"You  didn't  know  it  till  'e  said  'e  wouldn't  sell 
the  picture,"  said  Emily. 

"Well,  no,  p'raps  I  didn't,"  assented  Mr.  Nibbs, 
"but  I've  seen  it  before  anyone  else.  They  won't 
look  at  'is  pictures  in  Bond  Street,  and  'e's  afraid 
to  go  into  the  best  dealers  there.  But  one  of  these 
days  I'm  goin'  to  send  'im  along.  I  don't  want  to 
make  money  out  of  'im.  Why,  if  I  liked  to  offer  'im 
two  'undred  a  year,  like  some  of  'em  do,  'e'd  let  me 
'ave  all  'is  work  for  three  years  at  least  and  I'd  'ave 
more  than  six  'undred  pounds'  worth  at  the  end  of 
it.  I  bet  a  quid  I  would." 

He  could  not  have  afforded  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year,  so  it  did  not  matter  to  Emily,  who  was  not 
concerned  in  any  way,  that  he  would  ever  be  likely 
to  offer  it.  But  at  the  same  time  he  knew  it  was  a 
generous  sentiment,  and  his  face  smiled  up  at  her, 
full  of  good-nature,  in  expectation  of  her  approval. 

276 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

However,  Constance  had  been  listening,  not  to  his 
sentiments,  but  to  the  sentence  passed  upon  her  own 
conscience.  She  knew  now.  The  choice  was  very 
plain.  And  yet  it  would  have  been  easier  to  receive 
a  definite  answer  to  a  definite  question.  Her  eyes 
narrowed  in  speculation  as  she  looked  at  Mr.  Nibbs, 
wondering  how  great  would  be  his  astonishment 
were  she  to  ask  him  if  it  would  be  right  for  Dicky 
to  marry  her. 

That  question,  however,  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  put,  and  so,  still  with  some  faint  degrees  of 
hope,  she  struggled  on  to  learn  her  own  confusion. 

"Does  every  painter  turn  out  to  be  what — what 
you  think  Vs  goin'  to  be?"  she  asked  presently. 

The  little  print-seller  shook  his  head,  sorrowfully, 
as  though  with  great  experience. 

"One  in  a  thousand,"  he  replied.  "There's 
Thomas  Parker — I  used  to  sell  a  lot  of  'is  things." 

"You  sell  a  lot  of  'em  now,"  Emily  remarked. 

"I  sell  a  lot  of  'em  now,"  he  repeated;  "but  'e 
ain't  what  'e  used  to  be.  'E's  goin'  off.  Yer  can't 
paint  pictures  of  Venice,  yer  know,  with  the  smell  of 
a  fried  fish  shop  comin'  through  yer  windows  in 
Lambeth.  Mr.  Furlong,  'e  said  to  me  one  day, 
'That  picture  smells  of  fried  fish,'  'e  said.  Down  on 
each  other  these  artists  are,  yer  know.  Well,  Par- 
ker's no  friend  of  'is — 'e  don't  know  'im  or  I've  no 
doubt  'e  wouldn't  'ave  spoken  like  that.  But  they 
can't  'elp  it.  If  a  thing's  bad,  they've  got  nothin'  to 

277 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

say  for  it.  Why,  'e  came  in  'ere  one  day — you  re- 
member Emily — 'e  was  dancing  about,  as  excited 
and  jolly  r.s  'e  could  be.  'I'm  awfully  bucked,'  'e 
said.  'I've  just  been  to  the  National  Gallery  and 
Constable's  not  really  a  bit  of  good!'  ' 

The  little  man  put  his  hands  under  the  bib  of  his 
apron,  he  threw  out  his  stomach  and  he  laughed 
aloud. 

"Awfully  bucked,  yer  know!  Constable's  not 
really  a  bit  of  good!  Did  yer  ever  hear  anythin' 
like  the  cheek  of  it?  Constable  an  R.  A.,  mind  yer, 
'oo  was  a  friend  of  the  Earl  of  Dysart,  a  regular 
top-notcher — and  'e  thinks  Vs  not  a  bit  of  good  and 
is  awfully  bucked  about  it.  And  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  'e  wasn't  right,  either.  Mr.  Ruskin  didn't  think 
so  much  of  him,  and  Mr.  Ruskin  discovered  Turner, 
yer  know,  so  they  say." 

"Who  did  this  man  Constable  marry?"  asked 
Constance.  Upon  this  question,  she  hung  all  her 
hopes,  waiting  with  sickness  and  joy  to  hear. 

Mr.  Nibbs  turned  to  Emily,  deep  in  her  book. 

"Who  did  Constable  marry?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  with  a  jerk. 

"Constable  who?"  she  asked  with  annoyance. 

"Not  Constable  anybody  —  Constable  the 
painter." 

"I  dunno,"  said  she,  and  was  buried  again. 

Taking  no  more  notice  of  her,  Mr.  Nibbs  went 
278 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

to  a  shelf  of  second-hand  books.  An  encyclopedia 
was  there.  He  brought  it  down. 

"  'Ere  we  are,"  said  he — "Constable — Con — Con 
— stable — stable — John  Constable,  R.  A.  Son  of  a 
miller,  born  nth  of  June,  1776,  here  we  are — mar- 
ried Mary  Bicknell,  daughter  of  the  solicitor  to  the 
Admiralty  and  got  £20,000  with  'er.  A  nice  little, 
fat  sum  that,  wasn't  it?"  He  looked  up  with  a 
smile,  but  in  a  moment  the  smile  had  gone.  Her 
face  was  set  and  hard,  yet  her  eyes  were  glittering. 
If  Mr.  Nibbs  had  known  who  she  was,  he  might 
have  believed  there  were  tears  there.  As  things 
were,  he  just  realised  that  something  had  happened 
and  he  put  the  book  away. 

This  was  fatalistic,  it  was  prophetic.  The  son  of 
a  miller,  as  Dicky  was  as  well,  and  had  married  a 
gentleman's  daughter  with  twenty  thousand  pounds ! 
That  was  her  answer.  She  swallowed  bravely,  tak- 
ing it  with  all  the  courage  you  might  have  seen  in 
her  eyes,  you  might  have  found  in  her  mouth. 

"Well,  thank  you  very  much  for  telling  me,"  said 
she.  "I'm  afraid  I've  taken  up  a  lot  of  your  time." 
As  she  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  she  heard  him 
declaring  gallantly  what  a  pleasure  it  had  been 
and  that  if  he  could  have  sold  her  the  picture  for 
less  he  would,  but  that  he  had  given  two  pounds  for 
it  himself — and  then  she  was  alone  in  the  street. 

Not  until  she  had  walked  the  Bridge  was  she 
conscious  of  any  definite  thought,  and  then  suddenly 

279 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

it  occurred  to  her  how  surely  Mr.  Nibbs  would  tell 
Dicky  of  her  questions.  She  hurried  back.  The 
door  was  ajar.  The  pneumatic  contrivance  was  not 
in  working  order,  and  as  she  entered,  timidly,  in 
fear  of  what  she  had  to  say,  she  heard  Emily's  voice, 
raised  in  argumentative  declaration. 

"Lots  of  girls  is  pretty,"  she  was  saying,  "but 
that  don't  prevent  'em  from  bein'  common.  Look 
at  the  way  she  talked.  Fine  feathers,  I  know  that! 
But  pluck  'em !  Then  you'll  see  what's  underneath." 

For  one  instant  Constance  hesitated.  At  last 
she  walked  in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  and  she  spoke  with 
a  voice  that  was  foreign  to  her — not  an  aitch  was 
dropped. 

Mr.  Nibbs  hurried  forward. 

"I  know  Mr.  Furlong,"  she  continued,  "and  I 
must  ask  you  most — most " 

"Earnestly?"  suggested  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"Earnestly,"  said  she,  "to  say  nothing  about  my 
having  been  here.  I  have  my  reasons,  and  they're 
good  ones.  I  shall  hear  from  him  if  you  tell  him, 
and  it'll  only  mean — unhappiness." 

"I  won't  tell,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs,  and  she  knew  he 
meant  it. 

When  she  had  gone  again,  he  turned  and  looked 
at  Emily. 

"Beats  yer  old  novelette,"  said  he. 

"Beats  me"  said  Emily. 
280 


CHAPTER    IX 

FOR  the  rest  of  that  day  Constance  avoided 
the  oil  shop,  took  her  lunch  in  an  obscure 
restaurant  alone,  went  down  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  St.  Paul's  where  a  friend  of  hers  was  in 
charge  of  a  little  tobacco  shop,  and  there,  behind 
the  counter,  she  sat  all  the  afternoon.  They  talked 
of  hats  and  dresses,  of  things  that  had  been  said  to 
them,  of  things  they  had  replied.  Miss  Shadbolt 
had  a  number  of  admirers  constantly  in  attendance 
upon  her;  was  one  of  those  girls  who  involuntarily 
collects  a  retinue  of  young  men  and,  harmlessly 
enough,  is  always  finding  herself  in  awkward  pre- 
dicaments. The  conversation  never  flagged  for  one 
moment  when  once  she  embarked  upon  her  confi- 
dences. All  these  young  men,  in  the  time  since  last 
she  and  Constance  had  met,  had  said  a  multitude  of 
things  that  were  worth  repeating.  Her  replies  were 
of  equal  Importance.  They  had  tea  together  be- 
hind the  counter,  Constance  half-hidden  from  the 
gaze  of  the  customers  who  came  in,  where,  till  long 
after  tea  was  over,  the  stories  were  told,  with  little 
nods  of  the  head,  expressive  gestures  and  exclama- 

281 


tions  of  annoyance  whenever  a  customer  inter- 
rupted. 

Yet  all  this  time  Constance  said  nothing  of  Dicky. 
Many  times  her  inclinations  prompted  her  to  seek 
her  friend's  advice,  but  now  it  appeared  to  be  boast- 
fulness  and  then  she  knew  the  advice  was  such  that 
she  would  never  follow  it.  In  the  end  she  kept  her 
own  counsel  and  was  silent. 

Nor  was  this  silence  for  want  of  prompting. 
When  Miss  Shadbolt  had  exhausted  her  confidences, 
had  returned  from  a  customer  at  the  counter,  seated 
herself  with  a  deep  sigh  and  regarded  Constance's 
new  coat  and  skirt  and  all  the  details  of  price  and 
material  which  had  been  told  her  long  ago,  she  said: 

"How  about  you,  my  dear?" 

From  one  woman  to  another,  when  they  two  have 
not  met  for  some  considerable  time,  this  question  has 
but  one  meaning.  It  is  just  possible  for  you  to  as- 
sume ignorance  of  that  meaning,  but  not  when  the 
question  is  prefaced  by  a  glance  from  your  hat  to 
your  coat,  your  coat  to  your  skirt,  and  from  thence 
to  the  shoes  upon  your  feet.  Constance  knew  there 
was  no  avoiding  it,  and  smiled. 

"Nothing  about  me,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  go  on!"  said  Miss  Shadbolt,  for  women 
know  when  a  coat  and  skirt  are  irresistible.  "I've 
told  you." 

"I'd  tell  you  if  there  was  anything,"  Constance 
replied.  "The  music  'all  ain't  such  a  lively  place  as 

282 


RICHARD   FURLONG 

you'd  think.  Fellers  send  round  a  note  now  and 
again,  but  it  ain't  my  way  to  pick  up  with  anyone 
I  don't  know  nothin'  about." 

"Why  are  yer  wearing  those  things  to-day  then?" 

"Oh,  nothin' — been  to  an  agent's,  that's  all." 

Miss  Shadbolt  looked  disappointed.  She  knew 
that  there  must  be  something.  Life  from  her  point 
of  view  was  at  a  standstill  when  nothing  of  this  na- 
ture was  afoot,  and,  seeing  that  she  was  not  to  be 
told  what  that  something  was,  it  was  not  merely  her 
imagination  that  urged  her  to  suppose  it  was  quite  a 
serious  matter.  The  mere  fact  of  her  not  being  told 
proved  how  serious  it  must  be. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  be  married,  are  yer?"  she 
asked,  after  a  long  pause,  and,  from  the  serious  way 
in  which  Constance  shook  her  head,  she  knew  her 
assumptions  were  correct. 

In  the  hour  of  freedom  that  she  was  given  be- 
tween six  and  seven  they  dined  together  at  Con- 
stance's expense,  when,  all  through  the  meal,  she  en- 
deavoured in  a  thousand  cunning  ways  to  steal  the 
secret  away. 

With  a  weary  little  laugh  Constance  turned  to  her 
at  last. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  tell  you,  my  dear,"  said  she. 
"There's  nothin'  to  tell — just  one  of  those  things 
you've  got  to  swallow  and  look  pleasant  over.  I 
haven't  swallowed  it  yet,  that's  all." 

It  was  Dicky's  evening  at  the  night  class.  She 
19  283 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

counted  upon  returning  from  the  music  hall  and  dis- 
appearing to  her  bedroom  long  before  he  returned. 
One  more  night  to  herself,  talking  herself  to  sleep, 
and  she  knew  she  would  be  able  to  accept  the  inevi- 
table, be  able,  as  she  had  told  Miss  Shadbolt,  to 
swallow  it  and  look  pleasant.  Other  girls  she  had 
known,  even  Miss  Shadbolt  herself,  had  been  friend- 
ly with  men  who  for  want  of  a  better  name  she 
thought  of  as  gentlemen.  But  none  of  them  had 
ever  proposed  marriage.  There  was  one  who  had 
taken  her  friend  out  to  dinner,  but  never  to  restau- 
rants where  he  was  likely  to  meet  his  own  acquaint- 
ances. He  had  given  her  presents,  had  paid  her  a 
thousand  little  attentions,  and  Miss  Shadbolt  had 
talked  by  the  hour  about  him,  wondering  if  he  were 
going  to  propose.  He  never  had.  The  little  affair 
had  drifted  away  into  nothingness.  He  had  lost 
interest;  had  just  fallen  out  of  her  existence.  A 
brooch,  a  bangle,  a  little  hand-bag,  were  all  the 
things  that  remained  to  show  his  passage  across  her 
path.  And  these  were  the  men  whom  Constance 
thought  of  now. 

She  saw  Dicky's  future  far  plainer  than  he  saw  it 
himself,  far  plainer  even  than  it  glowed  in  the  ambi- 
tious vision  of  Mr.  Nibbs.  A  day  would  come,  she 
could  see  it  vividly  in  her  mind,  when  her  accident  of 
birth  would  rise  between  them  like  a  phoenix  out  of 
the  flame  of  their  passion,  and,  impulsive  in  that 
passion  though  she  was,  there  was  a  mental  balance 

284 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  her  equipment  which  no  desire  or  emotion  could 
destroy. 

That  day  she  had  needed  to  herself,  away  from 
Dicky,  away  from  all  her  surroundings,  in  order  to 
bring  her  mind  to  the  belief  that  she  did  not  even 
wish  to  marry  him.  It  was  a  stern  struggle,  but  in 
the  end  she  won. 

"You  'adn't  thought  of  marryin'  'im,"  she  said 
aloud  in  her  dressing-room  of  the  theatre.  "It 
wasn't  what  you  wanted  at  all.  'E'll  stick  to  yer 
right  enough  as  long  as  'e  wants  yer,  and  you'll 
know  quick  enough  when  'e  don't." 

In  all  these  solitary  conversations  her  gestures 
were  emphatic;  neither  did  she  make  effort  at  re- 
finement in  her  voice.  It  was  the  real  woman  speak- 
ing then.  With  bitter  energy  she  daubed  the  grease 
paint  on  her  face  as  she  talked;  but  even  before  she 
was  made  up  ready  for  the  stage  her  mood  had 
quieted,  aggression  against  fate  had  fallen  and  was 
still.  Her  battle  was  won. 

"I've  been  goin'  on,"  said  she,  "as  if  I  was  goin' 
to  lose  'im.  But  my  lord  I  we're  goin'  to  be  as  'appy 
as  a  pair  o'  kids.  'Tisn't  as  if  I  was  one  of  those 
women  in  society  as  'ave  to  go  into  a  market  and  be 
bought.  I  suppose  marriage  is  all  right  for  them. 
Once  they're  spliced,  they're  spliced,  and  if  they 
don't  like  it  they  lump  it.  But  I  wouldn't  lump  it 
with  any  man,  not  if  I  was  married  sixty  times  over. 
Marriage  ain't  no  real  good  to  a  girl  like  me,  yer 

285 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

know,  it  ain't,  and  that's  a  fact.  A  bit  o'  gold 
wouldn't  tie  me  up — not  if  I  wanted  to  be  off.  If 
you  was  to  ask  me,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  up,  re- 
garding her  face  in  the  mirror  for  the  last  time,  "if 
you  was  to  ask  me,  I  should  say  you'd  be  a  fool  to 
marry  'im — a  kid  like  that,  just  twenty.  'E  thinks 
'e  knows  'is  own  mind.  No — you're  well  out  of  it, 
my  dear.  Come  on— on  yer  go.  Get  onto  the  stage 
and  do  your  bit.  You're  well  out  of  it." 

At  last,  with  a  cheerful  smile  at  her  reflection,  she 
went  out  of  the  room.  She  had  won.  She  had  de- 
ceived herself.  With  a  stern  resolve  never  to  look 
back  to  those  moments  when  the  thought  of  marry- 
ing Dicky  had  so  thrilled  all  her  thoughts,  she  came 
onto  the  stage  and  sang  with  the  joy  of  life  awake 
in  her  once  more. 

As  she  changed  again  in  the  dressing-room,  where 
another  girl  was  getting  ready  for  a  later  turn,  she 
determined  in  silence  then  that  she  would  go  up  to 
the  Polytechnic  schools  and  meet  Dicky  as  he  came 
out. 

"What  sort  of  a  'ouse  is  it?"  enquired  her  com- 
panion. 

Constance  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  had 
hardly  noticed  the  audience  to  whom  she  had  sung. 

"If  it's  like  that,"  said  the  girl,  "I  shall  'ave  a 
drop  o'  port."  She  went  to  the  door  and  called  for 
her  dresser.  "I've  got  the  deuce  of  a  cold  on  me." 
She  sang  a  few  notes  with  her  hand  laid  on  her 

286 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

chest.  "Thick,  ain't  it!  An'  I've  got  a  boy  in  front 
to-night.  Always  the  way,  ain't  it?  Get  me  a  glass 
o'  port,  Mrs.  Evans — that's  the  third  this  evenin'. 
I'm  all  right,  ain't  I?" 

"Yes,  you're  all  right,"  said  Constance.  "It  ain't 
so  easy  to  get  tight  with  a  cold  on  yer." 

She  came  quickly  up  the  passageway  from  the 
stage  door,  settling  her  hat,  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  her  hair  as  she  walked.  In  Drury  Lane  a 
figure  came  out  of  the  darkness  and  joined  her.  It 
was  Dicky. 

"Thought  you  were  at  the  Poly!"  said  she;  but 
her  surprise  at  finding  him  there  was  as  nothing  to 
the  delight  of  seeing  him  by  her  side. 

"I  couldn't  go  there  to-night,"  he  replied;  "I 
couldn't  have  done  a  stroke.  Where  have  you  been 
all  day?  Mrs.  Baldwin  said  you  went  out  this  morn- 
ing after  breakfast.  I've  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere.  She  said  you  might  have  gone  to  your 
agents.  I  went  there — they  hadn't  seen  you.  I've 
been  all  over  the  place.  What's  happened?  After 
last  night — I  thought " 

She  clutched  his  arm  and  she  laughed  aloud  at 
the  joy  of  being  missed. 

"I  'aven't  been  nowhere,"  said  she;  "anywhere,  I 
mean.  Just  been  thinking  about  last  night,  that's 
all." 

"Well— well?" 

287 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  bent  down,  looking  beneath  her  hat  into  her 
face. 

"I  haven't  known  what  to  think,"  he  went  on. 
"You  wouldn't  say  anything  last  night.  We  are 
going  to  be  married,  aren't  we?"  He  squeezed  the 
arm  he  held.  He  meant  it.  The  night  had  not 
changed  him. 

"Let's  wait  till  we  get  inside,"  said  she. 

"But  your  mother's  there." 

"Well,  then,  we'll  sit  in  the  shop." 

For  the  rest  of  his  life  the  odour  of  paraffin  was 
a  memory  to  Dicky.  Gently  they  opened  the  door 
and  softly  closed  it  behind  them.  A  hanging  lamp 
with  a  bright  tin  reflector  was  burning  dimly  in  a 
corner  of  the  shop.  Oil  in  an  oil  shop  is  cheaper 
than  gas.  For  a  moment  or  two  they  stood  and 
listened.  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  moving  about  in  the 
room  above.  Until  she  had  seated  herself  and  all 
was  still,  neither  of  them  moved.  When  she  heard 
the  creaking  springs  of  the  old  armchair  upstairs, 
Constance  put  out  her  hand  and  at  once  it  was  in 
his. 

"Yes,"  he  said  eagerly,  "you're  going  to  say  yes." 

She  shook  her  head.  There  was  a  wooden  case 
of  candles  in  a  corner  of  the  shop,  beside  it  was  a 
heap  of  wood  bundles  stacked  for  sale ;  she  led  him 
there  and  sat  down.  He  stood  waiting  beside  her. 

"Listen,"  she  said  softly,  "it  was  all  a  mistake 
last  night.  I  never  meant  marryin'.  I'm  not  the 

288 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sort  as  ought  to  marry.  What  'ud  you  do  if  I  got  a 
fancy  in  me  'ead  for  someone  else,  or  supposin'  you 
did — what  'ud  we  do  then?  No,  listen,  I'm  goin'  to 
say  it  all — just  what  I've  been  thinkin'  about  to-day. 
We're  kids,  both  of  us.  Why,  I'm  older  than  you. 
'Ow  do  we  know  what  ain't  goin'  to  'appen  to  us  in 
a  couple  of  years  or  so?  It's  no  good  your  sayin' 
nothin' — anything — I  haven't  finished.  You've  got 
to  be  sensible."  He  was  listening,  like  a  child.  "If 
you  think  it's  wrong  for  us  two  to  be  together,  well, 
you'd  better  go  away,  see  what  I  mean — it  wouldn't 
be  no  good  your  stoppin'  'ere — because — would  it? 
We're  too  fond  of  each  other  for  that.  Would  you 
sooner  go?" 

She  hung  her  breath  in  her  throat  as  she  waited 
for  his  answer,  guessing  how  all  the  desire  in  him 
was  to  say  then  that  he  would  go.  If  she  were  firm 
in  her  determination,  as  indeed  it  seemed  to  him  she 
was,  then  he  knew  it  was  his  duty  to  be  gone  and 
expedient  that  that  going  should  be  soon.  But  he 
could  see  life  without  her  then  as  vividly  as  he  be- 
held her  by  his  side,  and  life  without  her  seemed  the 
more  impossible  of  the  two.  What  would  his  father 
say?  What  did  that  really  matter?  It  was  what 
he  must  say  of  himself;  nothing  but  condemnation, 
it  is  true,  yet  there  were  things  in  life  that  no  con- 
demnation could  depreciate. 

Had  there  been  no  folly  between  them  before, 
doubtless  he  might  have  turned  upon  his  heel  and 

289 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

there  would  she  have  been  at  his  shoulder  to  hold 
him  back  at  any  cost.  It  is  one  or  the  other  who  is 
firm  in  this  world,  seldom  both.  Nature  sets  the 
weak  against  the  strong,  lest  the  battle  be  neither 
won  nor  lost. 

And  all  this  while  she  waited  for  his  reply,  clasp- 
ing and  unclasping  her  hands,  watching  his  face, 
silent  with  fear  lest,  if  he  so  chose,  then  she  would 
let  him  go. 

"What  are  yer  thinkin',  Dicky?"  she  asked  at 
last,  when  patience  could  bear  no  more. 

He  made  up  his  mind  what  to  say.  "I'm  think- 
ing"— he  determined  that  this  should  be  his  answer 
— "I'm  thinking  that  in  fairness  to  you  I  ought  to 
go."  He  was  trembling  as  he  listened  to  his  voice 
saying  the  first  two  words.  "I'm  thinking,"  said  he, 
"what  it  'ud  all  be  like  without  you." 

Sweat  of  shame  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  He 
had  not  said  it.  What  he  had  said  was  a  different 
thing  indeed.  How  had  he  come  to  say  it?  It 
might  almost  have  been  someone  else  who  had 
spoken.  Those  were  not  the  words  he  had  intended. 
Yet  he  was  secretly  glad  when  he  saw  the  effect  they 
had  upon  her.  She  caught  hold  of  his  hot  hand — 
pressed  her  lips  to  it.  That  oil  shop  with  its  dim 
light  and  its  pungent  odours  was  the  most  wonderful 
place  in  the  world.  Each  kiss  upon  his  fingers  lit  it 
up  with  a  burst  of  light;  nothing  was  real  about  him, 
nothing  was  itself. 

290 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"You'd  miss  me?"  she  whispered. 

Something  or  someone  was  prompting  him.  He 
hear  himself  say,  "Yes." 

"Frightfully?" 

"Frightfully." 

She  dragged  him  down  to  her  side  and  three  bun- 
dles of  wood  rolled  down  from  the  heap  onto  the 
floor.  The  sound  of  them  reached  their  ears  but 
brought  no  message  to  the  brain. 

"Then  you're  not  goin'?"  she  murmured. 

She  felt  him  tremble  in  her  hands.  He  could  give 
no  other  reply.  His  head  was  hidden  on  her  lap. 
So  there  she  sat,  her  hand  stroking  his  hair,  knowing 
her  sacrifice  was  made,  glad  for  his  sake  that  he 
still  was  free,  glad  for  her  own  that  he  was  not 
wholly  lost  to  her.  There  were  the  years  before 
them,  and  who  could  ever  know  what  the  years 
might  bring? 

The  opening  of  the  door  behind  them — the  door 
that  led  into  the  house — brought  Dicky  stumbling 
to  his  feet.  A  light  appeared,  and  in  trembling  tones 
they  heard  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Baldwin's  voice. 

"Whoever's  in  there,"  she  called  out  in  a  high 
key,  "had  better  go  out  the  way  they  come. 
I've  got  a  p'lice  whistler  in  me  'and,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  blow  it." 

Only  Constance  laughed.  The  smile  that  came  to 
Dicky's  lips  died  away. 

291 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Don't  be  a  fat-head,  mother,"  she  said.  "It's 
only  us." 

A  deep  sigh  preceded  the  enquiry  to  know  what 
they  were  doing. 

"Just  talking,"  said  Constance.  "We're  comin' 
up  now.  Keep  the  light." 

"Well,  I  never!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baldwin,  as 
Dicky  passed  her.  When  it  came  to  her  daughter, 
she  put  an  arm  on  her  shoulder  and  held  her  back. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Constance. 

The  good  lady  waited  till  Dicky  was  out  of  hear- 
ing. 

"I'm  so  glad,  my  dear,"  she  whispered,  "though 
you  don't  know  what  a  fright  yer  gave  me." 

"You're  a  silly  old  fool,  mother,"  said  Constance 
gently.  Then  she  took  the  wrinkled  cheeks  in  her 
hands  and  kissed  her,  and  all  the  way,  as  she  fol- 
lowed her  daughter  upstairs,  Mrs.  Baldwin  contin- 
ued to  declare  her  pleasure  in  every  different  way 
she  could  think  of  expressing  it. 


CHAPTER   X 

WHEN  Mrs.  Baldwin  heard  from  Constance 
that  she  and  Dicky  were  not  going  to  get 
married,  the  weight  of  a  feather,  so  she 
declared,  could  have  knocked  her  down.  Yet,  deeply 
within  her,  she  was  not  really  so  surprised  as  all 
that. 

The  so-called  moral  attitude  of  a  third  generation 
of  Londoners  is  not  what  you  would  expect  to  find 
in  a  thirtieth  generation  of  country  folk.  That  so- 
called  moral  attitude  is  often  a  matter  of  expediency 
where  it  is  not  one  of  tradition,  and,  while  amongst 
Londoners  there  is  little  or  no  tradition  at  all,  ex- 
pediency, too,  is  a  negligible  quantity.  Amongst  the 
Bohemian  classes,  in  that  class,  too,  to  which  Mrs. 
Baldwin  belonged,  marriage  may  sometimes  be  a 
convenience;  it  is  not  often  a  state  of  blessedness. 
Tradition  does  not  demand  it,  and  few  if  any  un- 
pleasant consequences  arise  from  the  want  of  its 
observance.  For,  if  marriage  is  anything,  it  is  a 
social  law,  preserving  unity  and  order  amongst 
those  who  find  these  qualities  of  service  in  the  daily 
round.  To  Mrs.  Baldwin  and  her  like  marriage  is 
a  financial  convenience  often  doubtless  illumined  with 

293 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

affection,  but  beyond  that  has  little  or  nothing  to 
recommend  it.  The  difficulty  of  divorce  for  the 
poor  make  of  it  a  condition  that  has  many  draw- 
backs whilst  the  advantages  are  few. 

She  was  not  shocked  when  she  heard  it.  Her 
allusion  to  the  weight  of  a  feather  was  only  her  way 
of  expressing  the  setting-back  to  her  expectations. 
She  had  believed  that  all  gentlemen  proposed  mar- 
riage, even  if  they  did  not  keep  faith  with  their 
propositions. 

"Well,  I  did  think  Vd  'ave  asked  yer  to  marry 
'im,"  she  said,  "  'cos  I  suppose  he'll  come  into  a  bit 
of  somethin'  some  day." 

Constance  rose  hotly  and  at  once  in  Dicky's  de- 
fence. 

"He  did  ask  me,"  she  declared,  "and  I  refused." 

"Did  ask  yer?  Well,  it  isn't  me  that's  a  fat- 
head." 

She  looked  at  her  daughter  in  bewilderment, 
knowing  for  certain  then  how  little  she  understood 
her. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  she  enquired. 
"Don't  you  think  'e's  good  enough  for  yer?  You're 
a  queer  sort,  I  must  say.  What's  the  good  of  your 
goin'  on  the  stage,  if  yer  don't  make  use  of  it  like 
the  rest  of  'em  does.  You've  lost  a  chance,  you  'ave. 
I  don't  say  'e's  much  of  a  catch — not  a  penny  to 
bless  'imself  with — but  'e's  a  nice  boy,  and  'e's  a 
gentleman,  and  as  I  say  p'raps  'e'll  come  into  a  bit 

294 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  somethin'  some  day,  if  'e  don't  make  nothin'  out 
of  'is  paintin'.  What  are  yer  goin'  to  do  then? 
Yer  weren't  sittin'  down  there  cuddlin'  on  a  pile  of 
firewood  for  nothin'.  What  are  yer  goin'  to  do?" 

"We  'aven't  decided  yet,"  said  Constance. 

"No,  but  you  know  what  you're  goin'  to  do.  You 
can't  kid  me.  I  won't  'ave  yer  stayin'  on  'ere." 

"We're  not  goin'  to.  I'm  makin'  two  quid  a 
week  now.  We're  goin'  to  get  a  little  place  some- 
where." 

"And  live  on  your  money?" 

"What  we  make  between  us.  He  gets  two  pounds 
for  a  picture  when  'e  sells  one." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Mrs.  Baldwin  thought  it 
over  and,  when  she  came  to  the  realisation  that  she 
was  to  be  left  alone,  her  lower  lip  began  to  tremble. 
Seeing  her  feeling  for  the  corner  of  her  apron,  Con- 
stance put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"There's  no  good  blubbin',  mother,"  she  said 
gently.  "It  can't  be  helped.  It's  no  good  your  pre- 
tendin'  that  you've  never  'eard  of  people  livin'  to- 
gether before,  because  you  'ave.  We  shall  say 
we're  married — no  one'll  know.  I'm  fond  of  'im 
and  'e's  fond  of  me,  but  I'm  blowed  if  I'm  goin'  to 
marry  'im.  One  of  these  day  'e'll  marry  a  lady 
that's  fit  for  'im  and  I  'ope  it  won't  be  for  a  'ell  of 
a  time  yet." 

"Yes,  and  what's  to  become  of  me?"  whimpered 
295 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Mrs.  Baldwin.  "I  don't  want  to  be  'ere  all  alone. 
I  like  young  people  about  me." 

Constance  assured  her  that  they  would  not  go 
far. 

"There  are  rooms  to  let  in  Great  Queen  Street," 
said  she.  "We'll  get  a  place  there  and  you  can  come 
round  of  an  evening." 

The  sudden  thought  of  those  evenings,  of  their 
life  together  for  as  long  as  it  would  last,  caught  hold 
upon  her  imagination.  She  took  her  mother  in  her 
arms  and  hugged  her. 

"Mary  Pannell  was  'appy  enough  with  'er  feller 
when  she  went  and  lived  with  'im!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Nobody  thought  none  the  worse  of  'er.  Anyway, 
I  don't  care.  I'm  fond  of  'im — I'd  do  anythin'  in 
the  world  to  keep  'im." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  looked  at  her  tearfully. 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  said  she.  "You  won't 
be  the  first  and  you  won't  be  the  last.  But  it  never 
turns  out  well  on  the  stage — I  will  say  that.  It  never 
turns  out  well  on  the  stage,  not  in  those  plays  at  the 
Elephant  and  Castle." 

On  the  top  floor  of  number  twelve  Great  Queen 
Street  there  were  two  rooms  with  sloping  ceilings 
to  be  let.  A  skylight  in  one  of  them  made  certain 
of  the  matter.  Constance  put  on  her  oldest  dress 
and  went  to  see  the  landlord,  who  lived  next  door. 
She  knew  her  way  in  a  matter  of  business,  said  noth- 
ing about  her  work  on  the  stage  where  fabulous  sal- 

296 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

arles  are  talked  about  and,  as  Mrs.  Furlong,  se- 
cured the  rooms  for  five  shillings  a  week. 

A  water-tap  on  the  stairs,  midway  between  first 
and  second  floor,  was  common  to  the  entire  house- 
hold. The  ground  floor  was  occupied  by  a  tobac- 
conist, but  there  was  a  separate  entrance  to  the 
house.  This  in  Great  Queen  Street  is  impressive. 
Painting  and  papering  was  done  by  the  landlord, 
brown  paper  on  the  walls  of  the  living-room — this 
was  Dicky's  taste.  In  the  bedroom  Constance  pe- 
titioned for  bunches  of  roses  on  a  cream  ground, 
and  was  allowed  to  be  perfectly  right.  Of  her  own 
accord,  she  had  an  electric  bell  fitted  which  rang  in 
their  room  from  the  hall  door  in  the  street  below. 
On  Sundays  this  was  a  temptation  to  all  little  boys, 
but  it  placed  them  superior  to  everyone  else  in  the 
house  and  was  truly  a  convenience. 

It  has  been  said  elsewhere  that  Mrs.  Baldwin  was 
quick  to  accept  the  inevitable.  No  sooner  were  the 
rooms  in  Great  Queen  Street  taken  than  she  entered 
with  interest  into  the  excitement  of  furnishing. 
There  were  things  in  the  oil-shop  she  declared  she 
could  quite  easily  do  without.  The  premises  of  a 
furnishing  company  were  visited  by  Dicky  and  Con- 
stance and  Mrs.  Baldwin  where,  on  a  hire  purchase 
system,  such  things  were  bought  as  the  richest  peo- 
ple in  Christendom  might  well  have  been  proud  of. 
In  ten  days  there  was  no  knowing  those  two  rooms 
at  number  twelve.  Even  the  landlord,  who  had  a 

297 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

motor-car  that  brought  him  up  to  business  every 
morning  from  his  house  in  Brixton,  opened  wide  his 
mouth  when  he  saw  them,  telling  himself  he  was  a 
fool  for  not  asking  a  larger  rent.  They  were  not 
his  taste.  He  liked  plush  on  the  seats  of  his  chairs 
and  green  plush  for  choice;  but  he  said  they  were 
damned  fine. 

It  was  Constance  who  arranged  and  superintended 
everything.  Dicky  looked  on  in  quiet  wonder,  say- 
ing timidly  what  he  wanted  when  he  was  asked. 
Not  a  word  was  said  to  him  by  Mrs.  Baldwin,  who, 
after  she  had  heard  the  landlord  on  two  occasions 
address  Constance  as  Mrs.  Furlong,  was  almost  of 
the  belief  that  they  were  married. 

To  Dicky,  indeed,  it  was  all  a  dream.  Every 
night  when  he  went  upstairs  to  his  attic  bedroom  he 
made  an  effort  to  understand  it.  What  he  had  al- 
ways regarded  as  a  daring  mode  of  life  appeared  so 
absurdly  easy  when  it  came  to  be  adopted  that  at 
times  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  world  were  upside 
down.  But  there  it  was  and,  seeing  that  since  that 
night  when  he  had  slept  in  the  streets  he  had  ac- 
quired his  sense  of  humour,  he  took  things  as  they 
came;  realised  that  he  was  the  beggar  dropped  into 
the  soft  cushions  of  the  king's  own  bed  and  accepted 
the  delight  of  the  inevitable  with  but  a  vaguely  trou- 
bled mind. 

A  clear  conscience,  indeed,  is  a  comfortable  bed- 
fellow. He  slept  no  whit  the  worse,  those  last 

298 


* 
RICHARD    FURLONG 

nights  in  his  attic  bedroom,  for,  if  he  had  not  pur- 
sued the  most  heroic  course,  if  he  had  not  gone 
straight  away  and  left  her,  at  least  he  had  done  his 
utmost  to  persuade  Constance  to  marry  him.  Many 
times  since  that  night  in  the  shop  he  had  urged  her 
to  it  again;  but,  now  that  she  knew  she  was  sure  of 
him,  there  was  no  dissuading  her  from  the  course 
she  had  determined  to  adopt. 

"You're  never  goin'  to  say  no  more  about  that," 
she  said.  "You've  got  your  paintin'  to  do,  and  when 
I  'aven't  got  a  job  at  the  music-'all  you'll  be  sellin' 
pictures.  I  just  want  you  to  tell  your  Mr.  Nibbs  you 
aren't  married.  He  won't  say  it  to  no  one.  Other 
people  can  think  what  they  like.  I'll  wear  a  weddin' 
ring  if  yer  want  me  to.  It  is  nonsense,  ain't  it?  A 
little  bit  of  gold  and  a  parson  'ud  call  yer  respect- 
able. You're  not  frettin'  about  it  now,  are  yer?" 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"It's  no  good,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  going  to  lose 
you.  Anyhow,  I'll  buy  you  a  ring — we  may  as  well 
have  the  parson  calling  you  respectable.  By  Jove  I 
There's  Anne,  too.  What  am  I  going  to  do  about 
them  at  home?" 

"Write  and  tell  'em  you're  married.  I  sha'n't 
'ave  to  meet  your  father,  shall  I?" 

Dicky  laughed. 

"There's  no  fear  of  that,"  said  he.  "What  'ud  it 
matter  if  you  did?" 

20  299 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  reminded  him  of  it. 

"I'm  so  common,"  said  she. 

"You!    Common!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes ;  the  way  I  speak.  And  look  at  mother  Sun- 
day mornin's  in  'er  curlin'  pins!" 

"You !  Common !"  he  repeated.  He  took  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  held  her  there  before  his  eyes. 
"It  isn't  the  way  people  speak  that's  common,  that's 
only  a  matter  of  chance.  You  may  drop  aitches  but 
you  pick  up  pearls — that's  what  you  do,  you  dear 
thing,  and  there's  not  a  lady  in  England  has  got  the 
jewels  in  her  heart  that  you  have." 

This  was  warm  like  wine  to  her.  It  burnt  her 
throat,  brought  the  tears  hot  to  her  eyes. 

"Do  I  drop  my  aitches?"  she  asked  quaintly. 

He  took  his  hands  from  her  shoulders  and  clasped 
them  round  her  neck. 

"I  do  h-ear  myself  do  it  sometimes,"  she  went  on. 
"Only  when  I  think  of  it,  I'm  so  afraid  I  shall  put 
'em  in  the  wrong  places.  Doesn't  notice  when  I'm 
singin',  yer  know;  that's  the  funny  part  of  it." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  your  aitches,  you  pre- 
cious thing,"  he  whispered.  "Just  you  say  what  you 
think  and  don't  you  think  how  you  say  it.  You'll 
spoil  it  all  if  you  do.  Words  don't  want  aitches 
half  so  much  as  they  want  a  mind  as  noble  as  yours 
to  say  'em." 

He  went  off  whistling  one  of  her  songs,  cheerful 
300 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

as  a  cricket,  to  borrow  money  from  Mr.  Nibbs  to 
buy  the  bit  of  gold  to  cheat  the  parson  with.  And 
there  she  stood  some  moments  after  he  had  gone, 
wondering  if,  after  all,  she  might  not  have  taken 
him  at  his  word  and  married  him. 

"But  it  ain't  only  aitches,"  she  said  presently; 
"it  ain't  only  be'aviour  at  table,  an'  things  like  that. 
I  couldn't  leave  mother,  yer  know — that  wouldn't 
be  fair,  an'  think  of  mother  in  a  drawin'-room — 
you'd  never  get  the  paraffin  off  of  'er." 


CHAPTER    XI 

ON  the  day  Dicky  and  Constance  took  up 
their  abode  at  number  twelve  Great  Queen 
Street  they  gave  a  party.  The  idea  of  it 
originated  through  Mrs.  Baldwin,  who  conceived 
that  if  not  the  proprieties,  then  at  least  the  customs 
should  be  observed.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
tackled  Dicky  on  the  subject.  He  stood  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  sitting-room  upstairs,  blushing  and  flam- 
ing to  his  forehead. 

"There's  no  good  your  bein'  upset  about  it," 
said  she.  "If  Constance  gets  a  thing  into  'er  'ead, 
not  an  operation  wouldn't  get  it  out." 

"Well,  I'd  sooner  you  knew  I  did  my  best.  I 
wanted  to  marry  her,  I  do  still,  I  shall  always." 

"It's  very  nice  of  yer,  I'm  sure.  Marryin'  into  an 
oil  shop  ain't  much  of  a  catch."  He  did  not  deny 
it  from  that  point  of  view,  though  he  scarcely 
thought  of  marriage  as  a  catch  one  way  or  another. 
However,  when  he  made  no  reply  to  her  remark, 
she  set  to  defending  the  oil-trade  while  he  agreed 
with  every  word  she  said. 

"Of  course,  it's  a  trade,"  she  remarked,  when  he 
had  agreed  so  much  that  to  praise  it  was  no  longer 

302 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

worth  while.  "It  ain't  a  profession  like  paintin' — 
your  sort  of  paintin'." 

"My  father's  in  a  trade,"  said  he.  "I  suppose 
Constance  thinks  she  might  get  tired  of  me  and 
then  we  should  be  in  queer  street." 

"Well,  you  stop  in  Queen  Street  instead,"  said 
Mrs.  Baldwin.  "I  never  knew  such  people  as  men 
for  frettin'  'emselves.  Seems  to  me  if  a  thin's  goin' 
to  be  done  a  little  bit  funny  like,  women  set  their 
minds  to  it  a  good  deal  quicker  than  men.  She's  not 
a-gom'  to  marry  yer,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  It 
staggered  me  a  bit  at  first,  but  now  I've  seen  the 
weddin'  ring  you  bought  'er  and  the  rooms  is  fur- 
nished— I  dunno,  but  I've  got  quite  used  to  it.  Mind 
yer,  I  wouldn't  tell  my  sister  over  at  Lambeth,  but, 
Lord,  there  are  lots  o'  things  I  wouldn't  tell  my 
sister  at  Lambeth  as  get  to  seem  nothin'  when  they're 
done.  Still" — and  here  she  made  a  wise  amendment, 
seeing  that  she  was  going  too  far  in  her  endeavours 
to  quiet  Dicky's  conscience — "you  mustn't  suppose  as 
I  agrees  with  that  way  of  livin'.  I  disapproves — 
downright  disapproves — but,  as  it's  got  to  be,  there 
it  is,  and  I  think  yer  ought  to  'ave  a  sort  of  party 
on  Thursday  night,  yer  know,  because,  to  me,  a  per- 
son as  goes  miserable  when  'e's  doin'  what  'e  ought 
not  to  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  'imself.  I'd  'ave  no 
patience  with  'im." 

So  a  party  there  was.  Mr.  Nibbs  and  Emily, 
Mrs.  Baldwin  herself  in  the  dress  in  which  she  went 

303 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

to  the  theatre  on  the  Surrey  side,  Miss  Shadbolt, 
too,  and  one  of  those  admirers,  Mr.  Gossage,  who 
came  out  of  a  haberdashery  establishment  in  the 
Strand  and  brought  its  best  silk  socks,  its  most  fash- 
ionable shirt,  its  latest  tie,  all  displayed  upon  his 
elegant  person — they  all  were  there. 

There  was  first  a  meal  in  the  studio.  The  tramp- 
ing of  feet  up  to  the  top  floor  of  number  twelve 
was  such  that  first  and  second  floors  left  their  doors 
open  to  see  the  party  go  by.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Beasly, 
of  the  second  floor,  spent  at  least  ten  minutes  filling 
a  jug  from  the  water  tap  on  the  staircase  the  better 
to  see  them  all  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  party 
given  by  the  new  tenants.  A  wedding  has  its  fas- 
cinations. Mrs.  Beasly  was  over  forty,  but  she  sat 
long  that  evening  listening  to  the  voices  and  the 
laughter  overhead  and,  when  her  husband  returned, 
reminded  him  that  they  hadn't  been  to  a  picture  pal- 
ace together  for  a  month  of  Sundays. 

By  the  time  that  the  first  greetings  were  over, 
Dicky  had  forgotten  to  think  of  it  all  as  a  sham. 
There  it  was  and,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  they 
might  have  been  married  that  morning.  Only  Mr. 
Nibbs  and  Emily  knew  that  they  were  not,  but  when 
once  he  had  felt  the  grip  of  the  little  print-seller's 
hand,  and  knew  that  the  matter  had  not  earned  his 
disapproval,  he  was  prepared  for  anything. 

Indeed,  secretly,  Mr.  Nibbs  was  entirely  satisfied. 

"Mind  yer,"  said  he  to  Emily,  "I'm  not  sayin'  it's 
304 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

the  proper  thing  to  do,  but  most  great  artists  'as 
done  it,  but  I  wouldn't  even  'ave  'im  do  it  for  that 
reason.  She's  common,  too — it  was  you  said  it  first 
— but  I  wouldn't  'ave  'im  do  it  for  that.  She's  a 
real  good  sort." 

"Then  I  can't  see  why  yer  pleased  about  it," 
said  Emily. 

"  'Oo  said  I  was  pleased?" 

"Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,"  she  retorted,  and 
this  was  while  he  was  dressing  for  the  party  when  a 
glass  was  handy.  "Yer  eyes  is  stickin'  out  of  yer 
'ead.  I  never  saw  such  a  bulge  as  you  get  in  yer 
eyes  when  yer  pleased  with  somethin'." 

He  looked  in  the  glass  and,  seeing  how  much  his 
eyes  did  bulge,  knew  it  was  fruitless  to  deny  it. 

"Well,  if  I  am  pleased,"  said  he,  "it's  because  'e's 
goin'  just  the  way  as  I  should  expect  'im  to.  'E'll 
be  a  fine  artist,  'e  will.  There's  no  stoppin'  'im. 
Even  this  girl,  and  she  knows  nothin'  about  it,  she'll 
'elp  'im.  You  see  if  she  don't.  She's  a  rare  sort.  I 
wish  'e  would  marry  'er;  but  if  she  won't — and  you 
can  put  two  and  two  together,  can't  yer — you  know 
why  it  is,  it  was  Constable  as  did  it — Constable  and 
'is  Mary  Bicknell.  Well,  if  she  won't,  she  won't. 
But  'e's  goin'  to  be  a  great  artist." 

So  it  is  to  be  accounted  for  that  when  he  arrived 
at  number  twelve  Mr.  Nibbs  was  in  the  best  of  spir- 
its, taking  his  introduction  to  Constance — a  superb 
piece  of  acting,  inclining  to  the  methods  of  the  old 

305 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

school  and  the  Surrey  side — as  though  they,  too,  had 
never  set  eyes  on  each  other  before. 

"I'm  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Furlong,"  said 
he  with  an  excess  of  geniality.  "You've  'card  I'm 
interested  in  our  young  friend" — his  eyes  swelled 
with  laughter — "I've  'card  'e's  interested  in  you. 
Both  of  yer,  yer  'ave  my  'eartiest  congratulations." 

He  wrung  her  hand  like  a  pump-handle  and  con- 
trived in  the  process  to  draw  her  on  one  side. 

"That  was  all  right,  wasn't  it?"  he  whispered. 

She  smiled  and  pressed  his  hand.  It  had  been  the 
one  moment  she  had  feared.  Now  that  it  was  over, 
there  was  nothing  but  merriment.  She  turned  round 
to  greet  Miss  Shadbolt  with  eyes  radiant. 

"So  you've  swallowed  it,  my  dear,"  whispered 
that  young  lady.  "I'm  so  glad — truly  I  am !  Fancy 
you  married!  Do  seem  queer,  don't  it?  I'm  long- 
in'  to  be  introduced  to  'im.  Oh,  beg  pardon.  Just 
like  me  to  be  forgettin' — this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Gos- 
sage." 

At.  this  signal,  Mr.  Gossage  left  his  cuffs  alone, 
made  one  hasty  arrangement  of  his  tie,  straightened 
himself  from  the  easy  negligence  of  his  attitude  and 
came  forward. 

"Hearty  congrats,  Mrs.  Furlong,"  said  he.  "Very 
pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

This  being  perfectly  correct  and  said  with  the  air 
of  one  who  was  well  used  to  the  awkward  ceremony 
of  introduction,  he  relapsed  into  silence,  assuming 

306 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

his  former  attitude  of  negligence  with  a  hand  on  the 
nearest  chair. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  claret  stand- 
ing by  the  wall  in  readiness  for  the  repast,  one  after 
another  of  which  Dicky  opened,  regardless  of  sedi- 
ment, as  the  meal  progressed.  On  the  floor  below, 
Mrs.  Beasly  listened  enviously  to  the  sounds  of  mer- 
riment and  to  Mrs.  Cooper  who  had  come  up  from 
the  first  floor,  the  better  to  appreciate  the  noise  of 
jollity,  she  remarked  that  they  had  had  just  such  a 
bean-feast  when  she  was  married. 

"Laughed,  I  did,"  said  she,  "until  my  'usband 
spilt  a  plate  of  that  tinned  soup  over  my  dress — 
such  a  nice  dress  it  was,  too — all  grey  chiffong  with 
just  a  bit  of  pink  trimmin',  yer  know — suited  me  to. 
a  T,  that  dress  did." 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Cooper  brought  forth  recollec- 
tions of  the  dress  she  was  married  in  and  from  all 
that  she  could  call  to  mind  it  would  have  seemed  to 
be  a  better  dress  than  Mrs.  Beasly's.  There  was  a 
piece  of  real  lace  on  it.  Mrs.  Beasly  had  some  real 
lace,  too,  on  that  occasion.  Mrs.  Cooper  speaking 
of  it  had  reminded  her;  but  hers  was  really  too 
valuable  to  wear.  Hadn't  she  got  it  still?  Because 
if  she  had  might  not  Mrs.  Cooper  have  a  look  at  it? 
But  unfortunately  that  piece  of  real  lace  had  been 
sold  long  ago. 

"It  ain't  easy  to  keep  things  after  yer  married," 
said  she,  the  truth  of  which  being  so  profound  that 

307 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Mrs.  Cooper  could  only  nod  her  head,  remembering 
all  the  things  which  she  had  parted  with. 

There  came  a  moment  when  the  laughter  upstairs 
ceased.  They  heard  the  legs  of  a  chair  scraping 
on  the  floor  as  it  was  pushed  back.  A  few  murmurs 
of  approval  reached  their  ears. 

"One  of  'em's  goin'  to  make  a  speech,"  said  Mrs. 
Beasly.  She  rose  quickly  from  her  chair,  crept  quiet- 
ly to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"It  is  a  speech,"  said  she,  and  turned  round, 
gasping  as  she  found  Mrs.  Cooper  on  her  heels. 
"Shall  we  go  out  on  the  landin'  ?" 

They  did  go  out  on  the  landing,  but  the  landing 
was  not  near  enough.  They  tried  the  first  step  of 
the  stairs.  Before  the  speech  was  finished,  they 
were  outside  the  door  on  the  landing  on  the  top 
floor,  both  with  their  mouths  open,  both  breathing 
heavily,  as  if  they  had  colds,  both  profoundly  im- 
pressed by  all  they  heard. 

For  it  was  indeed  a  speech.  After  three  large 
glasses  of  claret — dregs  and  all — Mr.  Nibbs  in  an 
instant's  silence  had  suddenly  risen  to  his  feet,  glass 
in  hand. 

"A  speech!"  cried  Mr.  Gossage,  who  had  been  to 
public  functions  and  knew  what  was  expected  of  a 
man  when  he  rose  to  his  feet  at  table.  "I  was  at  a» 
big  dinner  at  the  Holborn  Restaurant  last  week,"  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Baldwin  on  his  left.  "A  dress  affair." 

308 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

She  nodded  her  head,  thinking  how  nice  her  Con- 
stance was  looking. 

"Speech!"  said  Mr.  Gossage  again. 

"Sit  down,  William,"  said  Emily. 

But  no,  Mr.  Nibbs  was  upon  his  feet  and,  once 
he  gets  there,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  seat  a  man 
again  when  the  words  he  has  been  preparing  in 
silence  for  the  last  ten  minutes  are  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue.  He  took  no  notice  of  Emily. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  then  shifted  a 
fork  upon  the  table,  "it's  not  often  I  'ave  the  oppor- 
tunity of  makin'  an  after-dinner  speech " 

"You  never  did  to  my  knowin'  before,"  said 
Emily. 

"Quite  right,'*  he  admitted,  "I  never  did  before; 
so  you  can't  expect  me  to  be  much  of  a  'and  at  it." 

The  fork  looked  crooked.  He  put  it  back  in  its 
original  position. 

"Any'ow,  this  is  an  occasion  when  I  feel  it  my 
bounden  duty  as  the  oldest  'ere — " 

"Modest!"  murmured  Mr.  Gossage. 

"Thank  you,  sir — as  the  oldest  'ere — "  No  one 
ever  prepared  a  meal  with  the  things  straight  on  the 
table.  He  could  see  that  the  fork  was  crooked.  He 
shifted  it.  "As  the  oldest  'ere " 

"Don't  rub  it  in,"  said  Mr.  Gossage. 

"To  drink  the  'ealth  of  the  bri — or  shall  I  say  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Furlong." 

Mr.  Gossage  loudly  rapped  the  handle  of  his 
309 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

knife  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Baldwin  felt  the  rising  of 
a  lump  in  her  throat  and  said,  "  'Ear,  'ear!"  thickly 
but  audibly.  Seeing  his  fingers  feeling  for  the  fork, 
Emily  pushed  it  toward  him  and  Miss  Shadbolt 
looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  admiration.  This 
was  the  first  company  in  whose  presence  she  had 
ever  heard  a  speech.  She  was  wondering  how  he 
could  think  of  the  words.  Only  Constance  and 
Dicky  were  disturbed;  Constance  since  the  moment 
of  that  half-spoken  word,  in  fear  of  what  he  was 
going  To  say  next;  Dicky,  caught  in  a  furnace  of 
self-consciousness,  wishing  the  floor  would  open  and 
plunge  him  in  a  well  of  water  where  all  was  darkness 
and  no  one  could  see  his  face. 

When  the  sounds  of  the  murmurs  of  approval 
had  died  away,  Mr.  Nibbs  took  a  draught  of  his 
claret  and  went  on : 

"But  before  you  fill  up  your  glasses,  I  want  to  add 
a  word  or  two  to  that  toast." 

Where  was  that  fork?  He  clenched  his  hand  and 
bent  his  knuckles  on  the  table.  He  was  determined 
to  leave  the  fork  alone. 

"I  want  you  all  to  take  a  deeper — "  Words  were 
confusing  things.  He  gripped  the  fork.  It  was 
easier  to  say  it  quite  simply,  "a  bigger  mouthful  and 
add  to  the  toast  by  drinking" — the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence hove  in  sight — "to  the  success  of  Richard  Fur- 
long. Not  many  of  you  I  suppose  'as  much  to  do 

with  artists,  but  I  'ave,  and  I  can  say  this " 

310 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Oh,  don't  !'r  said  Dicky. 

"I  can  say  this,"  persisted  Mr.  Nibbs,  "that  I 
never  come  across  a  young  feller  of  such  promise  in 
the  'ole  course  of  my  career.  I  sell  'is  pictures  for 
'im  and  'e  can  put  up  'is  price  if  he  likes,  but  I  don't 
care  whether  'e  knows  what  I  think  of  'im  or  not, 
but  I  think  'e's  got  a  future  in  front  of  'im,  and  with 
the  'elp  of  Mrs.  Furlong" — he  raised  his  glass  high- 
er in  the  direction  of  Constance — "damned  if  I  don't 
think  'e'll  make  a  big  name  for  'imself,  and  I  'ope 
I  live  to  see  it.  Ladies  and  gentlemen — the  bride 
and  bridegroom" — well,  it  couldn't  be  helped;  he 
had  said  it;  he  laid  down  the  fork — "and  the  suc- 
cess of  Richard  Furlong." 

In  a  confusion  of  nervousness  Dicky  was  just 
about  to  drink  his  own  health.  When  he  saw  Con- 
stance's hand  stretched  out  for  her  glass,  he  came 
to  his  senses  and  laid  a  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 

"To  the  bride  and  bridegroom,"  said  everybody, 
and  Mr.  Gossage  contrived  that  his  voice  should  be 
the  last  and  sound  alone — "and  the  success  of  Rich- 
ard Furlong!" 

The  hand  that  Dicky  had  put  forth  to  restrain  he 
held  beneath  the  table.  Their  fingers  locked  in  a 
vise  and  neither  of  them  felt  the  pain  of  it.  When 
they  had  all  seated  themselves  once  more,  Mr.  Gos- 
sage rapped  with  his  knife  handle  on  the  table. 

"Pray  silence,"  said  he,  "for  Mr.  Richard  Fur- 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

long,"  which,  he  informed  Mrs.  Baldwin,  was  what 
they  always  said  at  big  dinners. 

"No,  no,  I'm  not  going  to  speak!"  cried  Dicky 
in  dismay. 

"Must  reply  to  the  toast,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gossage. 

"Say  somethin',"  whispered  Constance. 

"I  would  like  to  'ear  'im,"  remarked  Miss  Shad- 
bolt,  and  Mr.  Nibbs  told  him  it  was  all  good  prac- 
tice for  when  he  was  President  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, at  which  all  laughed,  for  no  one  believed  it  but 
Constance  and  Mr.  Nibbs. 

With  the  pressure  of  Constance's  hand,  at  last 
he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Everybody,"  he  said  tremblingly,  "if  I  could 
make  a  speech  like  Mr.  Nibbs,  I  would;  but  it  isn't 
a  bit  of  good.  Saying — thank  you,  all  of  you — isn't 
a  speech,  is  it?  And  that's  all  I've  got  to  say,  except 
that  I'm — I'm  a  jolly  lucky  beggar.  That's — that's 
what  I  want  to  say." 

The  glasses  rattled,  knives  and  forks  were 
thumped  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Baldwin,  thicker  in 
speech  with  emotion  than  ever  and  less  and  less 
audible,  kept  saying  to  herself,  "Poor  boy — 'e  is  a 
nice  boy — poor  boy,"  for  she  felt  precisely  the  same 
sensations  of  motherliness  as  when  she  had  found 
him  crying  on  his  bed  in  the  attic  room  of  the  oil 
shop.  As  the  noise  died  away,  Mr.  Gossage  seized 
his  opportunity;  he  pulled  down  his  waistcoat, 
straightened  his  tie,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  This  was 

312 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

an  occasion  for  speeches.  He  knew  no  one  present 
but  Miss  Shadbolt,  and  never  before  had  he  aspired 
to  oratory;  yet  in  that  moment  it  became  his  ambi- 
tion to  make  a  speech. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he — he  was  so  self- 
possessed  that  he  heard  himself  telling  his  compan- 
ions the  next  day  how  he  had  made  a  speech  at  a 
dinner  the  night  before. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  again,  and  then 
Constance  looked  at  her  watch. 

"Good  Lord!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  on  at  the 
music  'all  in  twenty  minutes,"  when  there  was  rush- 
ing for  hats  and  coats,  and  only  Mr.  Gossage  stood 
still. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  all  go  to  the  music  'all  and 
give  'er  a  rouse?"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

They  shouted  delightedly  at  the  suggestion.  More 
hats,  more  coats  were  fetched.  Mr.  Gossage  slowly 
drank  the  remainder  of  his  claret  and  buttoned  the 
bottom  button  of  his  coat.  They  were  running  and 
scrambled  everywhere,  and  out  of  the  midst  of  them 
went  Constance  like  a  flash. 

"Sha'n't  be  more  than  an  'our !"  she  cried.  "We'll 
all  come  back  'ere.  So  long!" 

They  flung  open  the  door  for  her.  She  pitched 
into  the  speechless  figures  of  Mrs.  Beasly  and  Mrs. 
Cooper  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   XII 

HOW  these  things  come  about  no  one  pre- 
sumes to  have  a  notion,  but  it  drifted 
through  the  theatre  that  Constance  had 
been  married  that  day.  Mr.  Gossage  may  .have  been 
speaking  of  it  to  Miss  Shadbolt  as  they  entered  the 
vestibule.  That  gentleman  in  evening  dress,  whose 
business  is  described  technically  as  the  front  of  the 
house,  with  no  reference  to  what  he  has  to  do  there, 
he  may  have  overheard  Mr.  Gossage's  remarks. 
This  is  the  way  it  may  have  happened.  However  it 
was,  the  stage  hands  and  the  orchestra  had  wind  of 
it.  Possibly  the  gentleman  in  the  front  of  the  house 
told  friends  in  the  fauteuils;  the  young  lady  attend- 
ants may  have  carried  it  to  the  pit  and  to  the  bar, 
where  it  is  uncomfortable  to  drink  in  silence,  and, 
seeing  that  things  must  be  said,  gossip  is  a  god- 
send. 

Without  further  speculation  it  may  be  taken  for 
granted  that  almost  the  whole  house  knew  of  it,  for 
when  Miss  Constance  Baldwin,  vocalist  and  number 
four  on  the  programme,  came  onto  the  stage,  she 
got  the  rouse  that  Mr.  Nibbs  had  promised,  but  such 
a  rouse  as  no  six  persons  in  the  dress-circle  could 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ever  have  accounted  for.  On  and  on  it  went,  shout 
after  shout,  until  the  blush  burnt  through  the  paint 
on  her  cheeks  as  she  realised  that  the  whole  house 
shared  her  secret. 

With  a  motion  of  her  eyebrows,  she  begged  the 
conductor  to  begin,  but  he  only  laughed,  sent  her  a 
kiss  on  the  tip  of  his  baton  and  let  the  applause  beat 
itself  out,  while  she  must  stand  there,  her  eyes 
searching  across  the  dazzling  lights  to  the  balcony 
where  she  knew  her  Dicky  was  sitting. 

This  was  a  moment  when  she  could  prove  herself 
a  favourite  and  ingenuous  bewilderment  did  it  for 
her.  Had  she  taken  it  for  granted  as  merely  signs 
of  their  approval,  in  time  the  applause  would  have 
died  away  and  the  chance  in  her  little  career  had 
been  gone.  But  there  she  stood,  nervous,  amazed, 
no  actress  then,  just  a  woman.  The  whole  theatre 
saw  that,  and  a  mass  of  people  form  their  judg- 
ments quickly  as  one.  There  was  no  paint,  no  lime- 
light or  footlights  between  her  and  her  public  then. 
She  was  one  of  them  and  every  single  person  there 
in  the  audience  who  knew  of  it  was  proudly  wring- 
ing her  hand. 

When  at  last  she  did  begin,  her  voice  was  trem- 
bling, and  Dicky  in  the  dress-circle  felt  a  lump  in  his 
throat  which,  without  concealment,  rose  in  tears  to 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Baldwin.  But  they  none  of  them 
minded  that  trembling. 

"Don't  worry  yerself,  miss;  take  it  easy!"  cried 
21  315 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

a  voice  from  the  gallery,  and  her  trembling  song 
was  drowned  in  laughter  and  cheering  once  more. 
When  that  fell  again  to  silence,  she  had  found  her 
voice — such  voice  as  she  had — and  was  singing  as 
she  had  never  done  before. 

Three  encores  she  took  and  could  have  had  as 
many  more  as  she  pleased  but  the  next  turn  was 
waiting.  When  a  little  bunch  of  violets  came  up 
like  a  conjuring  trick  over  the  footlights,  she  bowed 
herself  off  and  the  curtain  fell.  This  way  came 
Constance  to  be  a  favourite  of  the  Middlesex.  They 
never  forgot  her  after  that  night. 

She  knew  a  little  tide  of  favour  had  turned,  her- 
self, and  with  a  pounding  heart  went  back  to  her 
dressing-room.  It  was  not  until  then  she  found  the 
violets  in  her  hand,  and,  with  a  little  cry  at  the  joy 
of  it  all,  buried  her  face  in  the  flowers  with  a  deep- 
drawn  breath  of  gratitude  for  everything.  In  the 
heart  of  them  her  nose  found  something  hard.  She 
pulled  it  out — a  note.  She  laughed  to  think  of  her- 
self a  popular  favourite,  receiving  notes  in  bouquets 
over  the  footlights.  Her  thought  came  to  Mr. 
Nibbs,  that  little  man  in  a  thousand.  She  tore  it 
open  and  read: 

"God  bless  you — you  dear  thing. 

"DICKY." 

And  then  the  strain,  that  gradually  had  been  in- 
creasing all  that  evening,  snapped  with  a  quick  catch 

316 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  her  throat.  The  old  dresser  who  attended  to  half 
a  dozen  of  the  girls  came  in  and  found  her  slipping 
off  her  clothes  with  the  tears  dropping  down  her 
cheeks  and  she  ready  to  laugh  or  cry  at  will. 

"Well,  you  are  'appy,  ain't  yer?"  said  the  old 
woman,  whose  genuine  idea  of  happiness  was  tears 
such  as  these.  "You've  made  a  'it  of  it  to-night; 
they're  all  sayin'  so." 

Constance  chose  to  laugh,  light  of  the  sun  through 
a  fall  of  rain,  and  the  old  woman  talked  incessantly 
to  her  silence  of  complete  contentment. 

Outside  the  theatre  they  were  all  waiting.  No 
more  of  the  show  was  needed  by  them.  To  accom- 
pany a  popular  variety  artist  home  from  the  theatre 
was  more  than  Mr.  Gossage  had  ever  hoped  for  in 
that  evening.  It  was  more  than  he  did. 

Mr.  Nibbs,  with  an  inborn  sense  of  gallantry,  the 
desire  to  speak  with  Constance  alone,  and  the  stimu- 
lus of  four  tumblers  of  claret,  took  her  arm  and  led 
her  off  himself,  to  Dicky's,  to  everyone's  amusement 
but  that  of  Mr.  Gossage. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  knowing  but  concealing  the 
fact  from  himself  that  the  wine  had  excited  his  gen- 
erous curiosity,  "  'ow  is  it  yer  won't  really  marry 
'im?  Now  don't  take  no  offence.  I'm  an  old  man, 
old  enough  to  be  yer  father.  'Ow  is  it  yer  won't?" 

She  walked  with  him  in  silence  for  a  while,  think- 
ing how  much  more  difficult  is  the  way  you  choose 
from  that  you  wish  to  go. 

317 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"D'yer  remember,"  she  said  presently,  "what 
Mrs.  Nibbs  said  to  yer  that  day  I  came  to  your 
shop?" 

"Said  what?"  he  declared,  "She  said  you  was 
pretty." 

"Yes,  but  as  I  came  back  that  time,  I  'card  'er. 
She  said  I  was  common,  she  said  she  wondered  at 
'im — at  him — taking  up  with  the  likes  of  me." 

"Just  'er  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Nibbs. 

Constance  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  spoil  it  all  this  evenin',"  said  she.  "I'm 
as  'appy  as  I've  ever  been  in  my  life.  I  don't  want 
nothin'  better'n  this.  It  wasn't  'er  nonsense.  She 
was  quite  right.  You  said  this  evenin'  he'd  got  a 
future  in  front  of  'im.  You  talked  about  'is  bein' 
the  President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  makin' 
speeches  and  all  that.  Think  of  me  sittin'  beside 
'im  then,  droppin'  me  aitches,  and  gigglin' — not 
knowin'  what  to  say  to  all  them  people.  Don't  go 
and  spoil  it  all — I  don't  want  to  think  about  it. 
We're  just  as  good  as  married,  I  don't  want  nothin' 
better'n  this.  Come  on,  let's  catch  'em  up.  What 
did  yer  think  of  'is  little  speech?  And  look  at 
these — "  She  took  the  violets  out  of  her  dress. 
"His — he  sent  'em.  Ain't  I  lucky?  Come  on,  let's 
catch  'em  up." 

Mr.  Nibbs  was  no  match  for  her.  She  had  put 
an  end  to  his  best  intentions.  What  with  the  warmth 
of  that  claret  still  in  his  blood  and  the  excitement 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

of  her  success,  he  was  ready  to  forego  all  his  ambi- 
tions for  Dicky.  Women  always  found  a  weak  spot 
in  him.  It  was  a  spot  he  had  no  little  affection  for. 
He  liked  feeling  weak  about  a  woman.  It  was  an- 
noying not  to  be  allowed  to.  He  tried  to  resist  her 
dragging  him  along  to  catch  the  others;  but  she 
knew  the  value  of  the  present  and  would  not  have 
it  spoiled  with  vain  regrets. 

"Come  on,"  she  persisted,  and,  before  they 
reached  the  door  of  number  twelve,  her  arm  was  in 
Dicky's,  when  no  one,  not  even  Mr.  Gossage,  pre- 
sumed to  intrude  upon  their  whisperings. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  below  her  breath,  "I 
found  the  little  note,  I  found  it,  Dicky — right  in 
the  middle  of  the  violets.  Oh,  my  dear!" 

That  was  not  much  to  say,  but  it  was  full  of  ex- 
pression. When  he  said  nothing  because  he  could 
say  nothing,  it  was  more  expressive  still. 

They  all  assembled  again  in  the  room  on  the  third 
floor,  when  Mrs.  Beasly  and  Mrs.  Cooper,  both 
despairing  of  any  hope  of  entertainment  that  even- 
ing, had  taken  each  other  to  a  picture  palace.  Then 
Constance  sang  to  them  and  Mr.  Gossage,  with  but 
little  pressure  from  the  company,  recited  "The  Ab- 
sent-minded Beggar,"  brushing  back  the  hair  from 
his  forehead  and  telling  them,  as  he  stood  up  to 
the  effort,  that  once  he  had  thought  of  going  on  the 
stage  himself. 

Notwithstanding  that  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  getting 
319 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sleepy,  she  gave  the  utmost  of  her  attention,  and, 
when  it  was  over,  proved  that  she  had  heard  it  all 
by  saying  that  she  wondered  how  anyone  could  re- 
member so  many  words. 

"It's  just  a  knack,"  said  Mr.  Gossage.  "Very 
difficult  when  you  can't  do  it,  but  easy  enough  when 
you  can." 

It  was  Emily  who  truly  liked  it,  begged  him  to 
do  another,  and  without  much  need  of  prevailing 
Mr.  Gossage  gave  them  a  little  thing  which,  when 
no  one  afterwards  enquired  as  to  its  authorship,  he 
reluctantly  informed  them  was  his  own. 

It  was  not  a  question  of  enjoying  any  one  item  of 
the  entertainment.  Had  Mr.  Nibbs  executed  impos- 
sible gymnastics,  standing  upon  his  head  for  the 
benefit  of  the  company,  they  would  all  have  been 
pleased.  Then  at  last,  when  Mrs.  Baldwin  had 
yawned  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  Emily's  eyelids 
were  dropping  and  heavy,  the  party  broke  up. 

Dicky  and  Constance  stood  together  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs  listening  to  the  last  footsteps  of  Miss 
Shadbolt  and  Mr.  Gossage  as  they  went  away.  The 
door  onto  the  street  slammed,  the  house  was  quite 
still.  In  the  darkness  on  the  landing  below  they 
could  see  the  gleam  of  a  cat's  eyes,  the  cat  that  Mrs. 
Beasly  kept  to  save  her  bread  from  the  mice. 

"Don't  they  glitter!"  said  Constance,  who  in  the 
awful  wonder  of  that  moment  dared  say  no  more. 

They  turned  back  into  their  little  room  where  the 
320 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

debris  of  the  party  scattered  the  floor.  Nervously 
she  stooped  to  pick  up  a  tumbler  that  had  fallen 
from  the  table,  and  when  she  stood  up  found  Dicky's 
arms  open  to  take  her. 


BOOK    III  V 
CHAPTER   I 

MR.  NIBBS  had  known  the  worth  of 
woman  when  he  spoke  of  the  help  of 
Constance.  From  the  day  of  that  party 
at  number  twelve  Dicky  strode  quickly  onwards  to 
the  hour  of  his  recognition.  For  though  she  knew 
nothing  of  his  work,  could  offer  no  criticism,  appre- 
ciate no  subtlety  or  distinction,  there  was  something, 
that  something  of  which  Madame  Marco  had  known 
as  well,  something  in  the  eager  vitality  of  Con- 
stance's affection  that  was  a  spur  in  the  heart  of  his 
determination  to  succeed. 

Every  few  weeks,  had  it  been  your  custom  to 
take  train  from  Waterloo,  you  would  have  seen  a 
new  coloured  wood-block  by  Richard  Furlong  placed 
prominently  in  the  forefront  of  Mr.  Nibbs's  win- 
dow, those  premises  of  the  Waterloo  Picture  Fram- 
ing Company.  Various  prints  of  these  I  have  traced 
to  various  owners,  who  procured  them  in  the  days 
when  they  were  one-tenth  the  value  they  ultimately 
became.  But  some  of  them  unhappily  are  lost;  one, 
which  for  subtle  combination  of  breadth  and  dainti- 

322 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ness  I  shall  always  regret,  always  remember.  It 
was  simple  enough  in  construction,  simple  enough  in 
treatment,  yet  one  of  the  most  decorative  things  I 
have  ever  seen. 

He  always  had  his  love  for  Greenwich,  but  it  was 
no  greater  than  that  love  for  Covent  Garden  where, 
what  with  the  companionship  of  Constance,  his  youth 
and  the  years  of  his  early  struggle,  it  may  well  be 
supposed  he  spent  the  happiest  days  of  his  life.  And 
this  coloured  wood  engraving,  the  block  of  which 
was  destroyed,  was  a  study  in  the  market  of  Covent 
Garden.  A  brilliant  day  in  summer,  shadows  cut- 
ting sunlight  to  a  keen  edge,  an  old  woman,  the  fine 
curves  of  her  ample  proportions  just  defined  be- 
neath the  shade  of  a  huge  gingham  umbrella,  seated 
beside  a  fruit  stall  ablaze  with  colour  in  the  light. 
Reds  and  yellows  were  heaped  the  one  upon  the 
other,  all  flung  against  the  deep  green  shadows  be- 
neath that  gingham  canopy  where  the  old  market 
woman  sat  with  folded  hands  upon  her  lap — asleep. 
Here  was  the  subject. 

Mr.  Nibbs  sold  his  print  of  that  and  never  was 
able  to  trace  it  again.  It  was  the  only  print  that 
was  made.  By  some  mischance,  one  of  the  blocks 
fell  into  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Beasly,  who,  showing  it 
to  Mrs.  Cooper,  said: 

"I  suppose  that's  what  'e  does  when  I  'ears  all 
that  'ammerin'  upstairs.  I  wish  they'd  'ave  a  baby 

323 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

and  then  she'd  soon  stop  'im  makin'  that  noise — 
pretty  quick  she  would." 

Mrs.  Cooper  looked  at  it,  asking  Mrs.  Beasly 
what  she  thought  it  might  be. 

"Looks  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Beasly,  "like  one  o' 
them  puzzle  things — what  yer  cut  out  for  children. 
P'raps  she  is  goin'  to  'ave  a  baby  and  that's  what 
Vs  doin'  it  for.  Countin'  yer  chickens,  I  calls  it, 
not  to  speak  of  the  waste  of  time.  Anyways,  they 
can't  want  it,  seein'  where  I  found  it." 

Whereupon,  declaring  that  it  would  make  a  nice 
little  bit  of  firewood  for  her,  for  in  Great  Queen 
Street  you  grow  stingy  over  candle  ends  and  fire- 
wood, she  chopped  it  up,  saying  that  that  was  a 
noise  he  ought  to  be  used  to  and  flung  it  on  the  fire 
to  heat  Mr.  Beasly's  dinner. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  Dicky's  coloured  wood- 
block, which,  characteristically  of  all  his  titles,  he 
had  called  "July."  Heat  and  summer,  shine  and 
shadow,  they  all  were  there  and,  in  that  plump  som- 
nolent figure  beneath  the  shade  of  the  umbrella,  you 
could  feel  all  the  still  drought  of  a  summer's  day, 
when  the  very  sight  of  the  pyramids  of  oranges 
brought  the  water  to  your  mouth. 

He  was  never  induced  to  do  that  block  again; 
for  though  it  needed  but  one,  with  the  others  still 
intact,  it  seems  that  it  is  impossible  for  an  artist  to 
repeat  himself  if  his  work  is  from  his  heart  with  the 
head  to  guide  it.  Long  before  his  work  began  to 

324 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

claim  the  prices  it  deserved,  the  other  blocks  were 
destroyed  as  well,  and  "July"  is  only  a  memory  to 
the  few  who  saw  it. 

But  there  were  more  than  two  years  of  almost 
unrequited  labour,  selling  a  print  here,  a  picture 
there,  doing  the  hack  work  of  illustration,  struggling 
hard  to  come  to  mastery  at  the  school,  before  Dicky 
attained  to  recognition  and,  all  that  time,  Constance 
took  her  engagements  on  the  music  halls,  flinging 
her  money  with  an  open  hand  into  the  domestic  ex- 
chequer, giving  him  the  best  years  of  her  life  as 
generously,  indeed,  as  he  gave  his. 

Life  itself  was  near  a  fairy  tale  in  those  days  at 
number  twelve  Great  Queen  Street.  When  the 
eagerness  to  give  is  on  both  sides,  you  turn  attics 
into  palaces  and  every  day  breaks  forth  with  a  ring 
of  promise  in  the  air. 

Whenever  the  bolt  dropped  out  of  the  blue,  for 
in  a  fairy  tale  there  is  always  that  blue  from  which 
the  bolt  may  fall,  whenever  he  sold  a  picture  or 
received  an  unexpected  commission,  there  followed 
those  glorious  and  improvident  days  when  they 
would  set  off  into  the  country,  haphazard  journeys, 
bringing  them  to  woods  and  valleys,  rivers  and 
meadows  where  Dicky's  heart  sang  back  aloud  to 
the  days  by  the  Avon  when  his  mother  was  alive 
and  all  the  fresh  wonders  of  the  world  were  in  his 
eyes. 

He  charmed  her  then  and  more  than  on  that  day 
325 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  the  gardens  at  Kew.  Of  the  birds  of  the  country 
side  she  knew  nothing,  only  of  those  tired,  voiceless 
creatures  that  mope  away  their  days  on  smoky  win- 
dow sills  in  Drury  Lane.  But  he  had  stories  of 
them  all,  a  name  for  every  one,  a  stave  to  whistle  of 
their  songs. 

For  an  hour  one  day  they  sat  and  watched  the 
tireless  doings  of  a  nest  of  ants — their  soldiers, 
their  sentinels,  woodsmen,  craftsmen,  thieves,  and 
all.  She  had  never  seen  an  ants'  nest  before,  and 
listened  to  the  history  of  these  makers  of  cities, 
with  her  lips  apart,  her  eyes  fastened  in  wonder  on 
his  face. 

"Don't  let's  go  back  to-morrow,"  she  whispered 
when  he  stopped.  "Let's  come  back  here  again;  I 
want  to  hear  more.  You  make  it  all  sound  so  won- 
derful. I  never  knew  you  was  like  this.  I  never 
knew  any  man  could  be  like  it.  You're  wonderful, 
Dicky.  What  should  I  have  done  if  I'd  never  met 
you?  I  should  'ave  missed  all  this." 

"Will  it  always  be  wonderful?"  said  he. 

"Always,  always,"  she  replied. 

To  please  her  fancy,  he  told  her  tales  of  all  the 
birds — made  a  world  for  them  to  live  in;  telling 
her  the  wagtail  was  a  washerman — the  blackbird, 
a  doctor,  busy  on  his  rounds — the  thrush  a  singer, 
hired  by  rich  and  poor.  He  pointed  to  one  sitting 
on  the  corner  of  a  thorn  bush,  singing  its  loudest  to 
the  dropping  sun. 

326 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"He's  engaged  by  the  doctor,"  said  Dicky;  "the 
eggs  hatch  to-morrow  and  he  wants  to  distract  his 
wife's  mind  from  worrying  too  much." 

She  came  at  last  to  prompting  him  for  more. 

"What's  that  bird?"  she  would  ask,  pointing  to 
some  small  hopping  thing  that  fluttered  in  the 
hedgerow. 

"A  whitethroat" 

"What's  he  do?" 

"He  helps  the  wagtail — starches  collars — three 
berries  a  dozen." 

Such  consummate  folly  as  this !  Such  divine  folly 
to  her !  And,  besides  their  folly,  there  was  work  as 
well.  He  always  returned  to  Great  Queen  Street 
with  something  accomplished.  She  sat  beside  him, 
reading,  while  he  sketched  or  she  lay  stretched  out 
in  the  sun,  smoking  innumerable  cigarettes,  until 
it  was  time  for  them  to  be  setting  back  to  their 
roadside  inn,  the  Fox  or  the  Crooked  Billet,  wher- 
ever they  might  be. 

And  all  this  time,  for  those  first  two  years,  she 
kept  an  ambitious  eye  upon  his  work,  learning  by 
degrees  those  little  catchwords  of  criticism  which 
encouraged  him  to  come  to  her  for  such  counsel  as 
she  knew  she  was  wholly  unfitted  to  give.  But  it 
kept  alight  an  interest  in  him  only  too  ready  to 
burn,  and  no  fear  of  what  the  future  might  bring 
ever  deterred  her  from  urging  him  to  his  best 
endeavour. 

327 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

It  was  one  day,  nearly  a  year  after  they  had 
settled  in  number  twelve,  when  Dicky  was  out  se- 
curing document  for  a  new  wood-block  and  Con- 
stance was  cleaning  their  little  collection  of  old 
brass,  that  a  knock,  an  unaccustomed  sound  to  them, 
fell  with  a  certain  timidity  on  the  door. 

She  was  seated  on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  a  brass  candlestick  in  her  lap,  a  cigarette 
between  her  lips.  At  the  sound  of  that  knock  she 
jumped  up,  when  the  brass  candlestick  clattered  to 
the  floor.  It  was  a  trick  of  Dicky's.  He  had 
played  it  before ;  to  knock  for  her  opening  and  then 
enquire  whether  the  only  woman  in  the  world  lived 
there.  She  flung  open  the  door,  her  eyes  lit  up,  her 
arms  ready.  It  was  a  stranger  in  cutaway  coat  of 
country  make,  with  buckskin  gaiters  on  his  legs  and 
a  low  felt  top  hat  set  firmly  on  his  head.  The  light 
dropped  out  of  her  eyes.  Her  arms  fell  to  her 
sides;  but  he  had  seen,  may  even  have  understood. 

"Does  Mr.  Furlong  live  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Furlong?" 

"Yes." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I'm  Dicky's  father,"  said  he. 

She  held  her  breath  and  felt  the  trembling  in 
her  knees  as  she  took  the  hand  he  offered.  What 
had  he  come  for?  Had  he  come  to  find  out?  There 
was  no  fear  in  reason  that  he  should,  yet  she  was 

328 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

overwhelmed  with  the  apprehension  of  it.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  define  the  awe  in  which  she  stood 
of  him,  and  Dicky  was  not  there  to  help  her  out. 
He  would  find  out  how  common  she  was.  He  would 
be  quickest  of  all  to  detect  the  folly  that  his  son 
had  made;  yet  it  would  be  still  worse  if  he  should 
learn  the  truth.  There  was  no  love  in  him,  as  there 
was  with  Dicky,  to  blind  his  eyes  to  her  imperfec- 
tions. Indeed,  there  was  no  love  at  all;  for  sud- 
denly her  blood  grew  hot  at  the  thought  of  it.  This 
was  the  man  who  had  turned  away  her  Dicky  from 
his  home !  She  stood  there  holding  the  door,  mak- 
ing no  offer  to  invite  him  within. 

Then  in  her  attitude,  half  of  defiance,  half  of 
fear,  the  unhappy  man  saw  with  the  sensitive  eyes 
of  pride  that  Dicky  had  kept  nothing  from  her. 
And  here  was  he  where  no  pride  or  authority  could 
avail. 

"Isn't  Dicky  here?"  he  said  at  last. 

"No." 

The  reply  was  definite,  uncompromising.  Yet  he 
was  conscious  of  feeling  that,  if  she  understood  all, 
she  would  be  sorry  for  him  as  well. 

"When  do  you  expect  him  back?"  he  asked. 

"In  about  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"Didn't  you  expect  it  was  he  when  you  came  to 
the  door?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

329 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Then  mightn't  I  come  in  and  wait  for  a  little 
while?  I'm  going  back  to  the  country  to-morrow. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  miss  him." 

She  opened  the  door  wider  and  let  him  enter. 

"Thank-ye,"  he  said  as  he  passed  her. 

It  was  said  with  a  show  of  ease,  in  a  tone  of 
good-natured  familiarity,  as  though  no  trace  of  an- 
tagonism was  there  between  them,  nor  cause  for  it 
at  all.  He  sought  to  smooth  things  over  by  ignor- 
ing them,  little  knowing  that  with  her,  as  indeed 
with  most,  the  fire  is  better  for  a  rouse  when  the 
smoke  is  smarting  in  the  eyes. 

It  was  tea-time.  In  silence  she  set  about  the 
making  of  the  meal,  bringing  forth  the  old  china  cups 
which  they  had  bought  for  this  house  of  improvi- 
dence. For  a  few  moments  he  watched  her,  silent 
as  well,  thinking,  this  is  the  girl  Dicky  had  married, 
knowing  there  was  a  woman  who  had  more  claim 
upon  his  son  than  had  he. 

"How's  Dicky  getting  on?"  he  asked  presently. 

She  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Wonderflly,"  said  she.  "He's  goin'  to  be  a 
great  artist  I  expec'  you  don't  guess  how  great 
he's  goin'  to  be." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  sounded  every  aitch,  yet 
knew  his  eyes  were  on  her;  knew  he  was  listening, 
as  she  was  listening  too,  to  every  word  she  ut- 
tered. If  only  Dicky  were  there!  She  believed 

330 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

her  conversation   sounded  less   common  when  his 
voice  was  joining  in  with  hers. 

"How  do  you  know  he's  going  to  be  great?" 
asked  Mr.  Furlong,  with  a  smile.  His  voice  was 
not  unkind;  his  smile  was  not  unkind,  yet  the  blood 
came  hot  to  her  cheeks  as  she  heard  his  question. 
There  was  a  genial  suggestion  of  doubt  in  it,  doubt 
of  her  belief,  the  belief  upon  which  she  had  ordered 
her  life,  upon  which  she  had  made  her  sacrifice. 
It  was  her  one  article  of  faith  and  he  was  ques- 
tioning it. 

"  'Ow  do  I  know?"  she  exclaimed,  and,  in  that 
moment  of  enthusiasm,  knew  an  aitch  had  fallen 
too  late  to  be  replaced.  "Well,  I'll  show  yer,  if 
yer  want  ter  know,"  and  from  a  spacious  cupboard 
where  he  kept  his  work  she  drew  forth  one  after 
another  of  his  coloured  wood-blocks,  standing  them 
one  by  one  in  that  corner  where  she  had  learnt  the 
light  was  best;  one  by  one,  the  finest  at  the  last. 
Such  little  tricks  as  these  she  had  been  quick  to 
learn. 

"And  look  at  this,"  said  she,  bringing  him  out 
the  "Scavenger,"  just  finished  then,  the  first  pull 
from  the  school  press,  radiant  in  the  best  frame  he 
had  in  his  possession. 

'The  Scavenger,'  he  calls  that.     A  dredger,  yer 
know,  takin'  mud  out  of  the  Thames." 

She,  who  had  never  heard  of  a  dredger  in  her 
life  before! 

22  331 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Mr.  Nibbs,  the  dealer,  has  seen  this  one  and  he 
says  it'll  live.  That's  why  he'll  be  a  great  artist, 
because  this  picture'll  be  sellin'  when  you  and  I  are 
turnin'  up  our  heels  in  a  graveyard.  They're  col- 
oured wood-blocks,  yer  know.  Don't  yer  know 
what  coloured  wood-blocks  are?" 

He  shook  his  head.  She  was  triumphing.  He 
knew  he  could  not  hold  his  own.  This  was  a  world 
other  than  his  mill.  He  tried  to  find  his  feet,  to 
meet  her  on  her  own  ground. 

"Well,  he  cuts  'em  out  of  wood — first  one  block 
and  then  another,  and  prints  'em  on  paper  with 
different  coloured  inks.  You'd  never  think  that 
was  printed,  would  yer?  And  he's  got  no  press  of 
'is  own;  'as  to  go  up  to  the  schools  every  time  'e 
wants  to  take  a  pull.  You  used  to  think  'e  couldn't 
work,  didn't  yer?  Work!  There  are  days  when  'e 
gets  the  'ump — hump — but  when  that's  cleared  off, 
if  it  was  only  'is  fingers  'e  was  workin'  with,  they'd 
touch  the  bone." 

Mr.  Furlong  sat  looking  at  the  "Scavenger," 
knowing  within  his  deeper  consciousness  that  it  was 
beyond  his  criticism,  yet  calling  forth  all  his  slender 
knowledge  of  art  to  find  some  little  fault  to  hide  the 
ignorance  he  felt,  just  like  any  critic  in  a  day  when 
criticism  is  dead. 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  "I  don't  think  he  ought  to 
have  made  the  dredger  so  dark  against  the  rest 
of  the  picture." 

332 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

She  was  up  in  arms  at  once,  but  weaponless  ex- 
cept for  love. 

"You  go  and  see  the  dredger  down  at  Green- 
wich," she  declared,  "where  'e  did  it.  I  betcher 
whatcher  like,  it'll  get  up  and  'it  yer,  like  that  one 
does  there."  That  was  one  of  her  catchwords. 
She  had  heard  that  often.  When  a  thing  got  up 
and  hit  you,  it  was  good.  "There  was  a  man  came 
and  bought  a  picture  of  Dicky's  from  Mr.  Nibbs; 
he  was  the  same  man  as  bought  the  first  that  Dicky 
ever  sold.  The  other  day  he  came  in  and  bought 
another.  And  d'yer  know  what  'e  said?" 

Mr.  Furlong  shook  his  head. 

"  'E  said,  'This  boy,'  said  'e,  'sees  truer  than 
many  o'  the  artists  we're  boastin'  about  in  this 
country.'  In  this  country,  mind  yer,  not  just  in 
London.  'When  'e  gets  technique,'  'e  said,  *  Vll 
do  somethin'.'  And  one  of  the  dealers,  the  real 
dealers  in  Bond  Street,  wants  'is  work  now.  Wants 
to  bind  'im  up  for  three  years;  but  Mr.  Nibbs  'as 
begged  'im  not  to.  'Sell  'em  a  picture  or  two,'  'e 
says,  'but  for  God's  sake  don't  tie  yerself!'  And 
Vs  not  goin'  to,  though  they're  offerin'  'im  a  'un- 
dred  and  fifty  a  year  for  three  years  to  work  for 


'em." 


"What  do  they  give  him  for  the  separate  pic- 
tures?" 

"They  won't  buy  'em — not  unless  'e  binds  'imself. 
But  they'll  buy  'em  yet.  Mr.  Nibbs  says  so.  'E 

333 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

knows  'em — twenty-five  percenters!  Now  aren't 
yer  proud  of  'im?" 

She  threw  her  head  back,  and,  aitches  or  no 
aitches,  she  asked  the  question  to  his  eyes.  If  she 
was  common,  she  was  Dicky's  choice.  Any  who 
dared  might  accuse  him  of  folly. 

"Aren't  yer  proud  of  'im?"  she  repeated,  and, 
as  he  heard  steps  hastening  up  the  stairs,  admis- 
sions to  women  being  always  easier  than  they  are 
to  men,  he  bent  his  head. 

"Yes,  I — I  am,"  said  he,  shutting  his  lips  against 
the  thought  to  plead  she  should  not  tell  him  so. 


CHAPTER    II 

UNDOUBTEDLY  the  moment  was  the  most 
distressing  to  Mr.  Furlong  when  the  door 
opened  and  Dicky  stood  there,   silent  in 
his  astonishment.    All  the  disadvantage  was  on  Mr. 
Furlong's  side.     He  was  not  under  his  own  roof; 
here,    no    matter   what    relationship,    he    was    not 
master,  and,  beside  him,  ready  to  do  battle  at  the 
faintest  provocation,  was  one  of  that  sex  which  he 
had  often  pretended  to  but  had  never  even  dimly 
understood. 

Yet,  when  it  is  considered  the  odds  that  were 
against  him,  he  faced  the  situation  with  courage. 
In  the  unhappy  smile  that  lurked  beneath  his  mous- 
tache, his  own  father,  had  he  been  alive  to  see  him 
then,  would  have  remembered  the  boy  of  ten,  nerves 
strained  to  take  his  thrashing.  Even  to  Dicky,  it 
was  a  strange  expression  which  a  lightning  instinct 
read  to  him  as  fear.  There  was  almost  apprehen- 
sion in  his  father's  voice,  but  he  carried  it  all  off 
with  a  certain  jauntiness,  a  certain  spirit  of  com- 
radeship, the  first  retreat  from  those  outposts  of 
his  attack,  the  first  admission  that  this  son  of  his 
had  become  a  man.  This  was  all  because  of  Con- 

335 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

stance;  for  it  is  women  who  give  us  the  dignity  of 
manhood  and  it  is  women  who  take  it  away. 

In  full  apprehension  of  the  result  and  well  remem- 
bering that  scene  which  had  taken  place  between 
them  at  the  Mill,  Mr.  Furlong  stepped  forward, 
holding  out  his  hand.  The  instinct  prompting  him 
to  refuse  it  was  gone  from  Dicky  in  a  moment.  He 
put  out  his  own. 

"How  are  you,  my  dear  boy?"  said  Mr.  Furlong, 
and  the  look  of  fear  gave  way  to  a  broad  smile. 
His  hand  gripped  Dicky's  warmly.  He  was  filled 
with  relief  now  that  the  tension  of  that  moment  had 
passed. 

They  all  sat  down  to  tea  together,  Constance 
waiting  on  them,  knowing  the  things  of  which  she 
was  most  capable,  refusing  to  be  helped.  For  a 
while  they  talked  of  the  Mill,  of  Eckington,  of  all 
the  people  thereabout;  the  changes  that  had  come, 
few  enough  in  that  corner  of  the  world,  since  last 
Dicky  had  been  there.  Only  the  name  of  Dorothy 
was  left  unmentioned.  Ann  was  shortly  to  be  mar- 
ried. Mr.  Hollom  had  got  a  master's  appointment 
at  a  small  school  in  Pershore.  They  would  live 
only  a  few  miles  from  Trafford  Mill. 

And  all  this  time,  until  tea  was  finished,  Constance 
said  nothing.  The  moment  of  her  antagonism  was 
passed  into  a  mild  acceptance.  She  was  left  won- 
dering how  common  he  had  found  her  to  be. 
What  had  she  said?  How  had  she  said  it?  Some 

336 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

aitches  she  knew  had  fallen  in  her  speech.  Had 
he  noticed  them?  In  excitement,  in  enthusiasm,  did 
not  the  best  of  people  drop  their  aitches,  make  little 
slips  of  speech  which  in  numberless  cases  would 
pass  unnoticed? 

But  it  was  more  than  that.  Beyond  every  de- 
fence which  she  could  make  for  herself  lay  the  in- 
sistent knowledge  that  she  was  common  by  birth; 
that  between  herself  and  Dicky  was  fixed  a  gulf, 
indefinable  to  her  except  in  the  meaning  of  that 
word — class,  which  only  the  bridge  of  his  affection 
could  span. 

Depressed  at  last  at  the  thought  of  what  must  be 
inevitable  in  Mr.  Furlong's  mind,  she  rose  to  clear 
the  tea  things  away,  and,  when  they  were  collected 
on  the  tray,  took  them  silently  from  the  room. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed,  Mr.  Furlong 
leant  forward  in  his  chair. 

"I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  boy,"  said  he. 
"You've  found  a  champion  there." 

How  little  he  had  realised  of  the  commonness 
which  she  fearecj  it  might  have  surprised  Constance 
to  learn!  True,  he  had  noticed  the  fallen  aitches, 
the  cockney  twang,  here  the  little  want  of  ease,  there 
the  awkwardness  of  speech,  yet  the  impression  left 
with  him  was  of  a  noble  woman  which  no  distinction 
of  class  could  overrule. 

"You've  found  a  champion  there,"  he  repeated, 
and,  to  Dicky's  pleased  smile,  in  which  he  saw  some 

337 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

want  of  comprehension,  he  related  how  she  had 
spoken  in  his  defence,  showing  his  pictures  and 
pointing  out  their  qualities  with  the  fierce  enthusiasm 
of  her  sex.  Only  of  the  confession  which  she  had 
forced  from  him  did  he  say  nothing.  His  coming 
there  to  see  Dicky  was  as  great  an  admission  of 
defeat  as  he  was  capable  of.  It  was  enough  to  have 
given  up  the  scabbard  of  his  authority.  It  was  not 
in  the  character  of  the  man  to  give  up  his  sword, 
even  in  honourable  defeat. 

"But  she  knows  a  great  deal  about  pictures,  my 
dear  boy,"  said  he.  "I  suppose  you've  taught  her." 

Dicky  smiled.  The  great  deal  that  Constance 
knew!  He  realised  then  how  fervidly  she  must 
have  spoken. 

"She  knew  a  lot  without  my  teaching,"  said  he, 
and  set  her  up  above  his  father's  ignorance  with 
the  brave  intent,  knowing  her  battles,  to  fight  them 
for  her  too. 

"Does  a  little  at  it  herself,  I  suppose?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"No?  Well,  p'raps  that's  all  the  better.  A 
woman's  sphere  is  in  the  home.  That's  what  I 
think  myself." 

Dicky  nodded  gravely,  as  though  he  entirely 
agreed,  yet  was  wondering  what  his  father  would 
think  if  he  knew  that  partly  through  Constance's 

338 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

work  on  the  music  halls  that  improvident  little 
home  of  theirs  was  kept  in  its  improvident  way. 

"Where  did  you  meet  her?"  Mr.  Furlong  asked 
presently.  "You  didn't  tell  Anne  when  you  wrote 
and  said  you  were  getting  married.  She's  a  Lon- 
doner, I  can  see  that." 

"Yes,  I  met  her  in  London." 

"Her  people  live  here,  then?" 

"Her  mother  does.     Her  father's  dead." 

"I  like  that  look  in  her  eyes,"  Mr.  Furlong  con- 
tinued. "It's  a  good  look,  that  look  in  her  eyes. 
They're  set  wide  apart.  It's  a  funny  thing,  but  I've 
always  been  able  to  tell  a  woman  by  the  look  in 
her  eyes." 

Dicky  looked  questioningly  at  his  father,  wonder- 
ing if  he  had  always  talked  nonsense  like  that  all 
his  life,  or  was  it  because  he  was  getting  old,  or 
Dicky  himself  growing  wiser.  Whatever  it  might  be, 
he  realised  the  folly  it  was  to  talk  of  knowing  any 
woman  by  the  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sure  she's  a  dear,  good  girl,"  Mr.  Furlong 
concluded;  and  that  showed  what  nonsense  it  was, 
for  he  would  have  said  just  the  reverse  had  he 
known.  A  few  remarks  like  these  and  Dicky  found 
himself  being  sorry  for  his  father;  found  himself 
wondering  what  Christina,  his  mother,  had  ever  seen 
in  him.  Yet  at  the  back  of  all  these  criticisms  was  a 
sense  of  respect  because  the  man  was  his  father, 

339 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

for  whom,  though  all  fear  of  him  had  gone,  the 
spirit  of  obedience  still  remained. 

But  he  would  tell  him  no  more  of  Constance, 
well  knowing  the  want  of  understanding  in  his 
father,  and  when  Mr.  Furlong  found  that  no  fur- 
ther eulogy  of  his  could  bring  from  Dicky  the  satis- 
faction to  the  paternal  curiosity  he  felt,  he  turned 
to  the  discussion  of  his  son's  work,  asked  him  how 
he  was  getting  on,  said  he  had  heard  talk  from 
Constance  of  Bond  Street  dealers,  and  supposed, 
with  a  laugh,  because  he  meant  it  as  a  joke,  that 
one  of  these  days  they  would  be  seeing  a  picture  of 
his  in  the  Academy. 

"I  still  come  up  to  London  and  go  to  the  Academy 
every  year,"  he  added.  "You  know  we've  got  some 
fine  artists  in  this  country.  I  even  prefer  them  to 
the  French  myself." 

"What  French  artists  do  you  like?"  asked  Dicky 
solemnly. 

"Oh — well — I  know  the  man's  name  well  enough, 
but  I  can't  remember  it  for  the  moment.  He's  very 
fine,  I  know — does  beautiful  nude  figures,  and  I 
can't  help  liking  the  nude  myself."  He  smiled,  even 
as  one  man  smiles  to  another.  "I  shouldn't  have 
said  that  to  you  a  few  years  ago,"  said  he.  "But  I 
suppose  you  have  to  do  more  or  less  that  sort  of 
thing  yourself,  learning  the  anatomy  of  the  figure 
and  so  on.  Mr.  Leggatt,  at  Eckington,  doesn't  ap- 
prove of  it  at  all,  not  that  drawing  from  the  nude. 

340 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

But  I  wouldn't  object  myself.  If  a  man  has  to  learn 
his  work,  he  must  learn  every  branch  of  it.  At 
least  that's  what  I  say,  and  I'm  sure  you  agree  with 


me." 


Dicky  did  agree. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  said,  but  his  brain  was  whirl- 
ing at  the  nonsense  he  was  listening  to.  To  call  it 
nonsense  was  disrespectful,  yet,  seeing  that  it  was 
his  own  work  they  were  discussing,  nonsense  was 
the  only  word  for  it.  He  scarcely  knew  how  to 
reply  without  showing  his  father  what  he  thought 
and  hoped  fervently  that  Constance  would  return 
to  ease  the  tension  of  their  conversation.  A  knock 
on  the  door  brought  him  quickly  to  his  feet,  but, 
hearing  the  door  of  their  bedroom  open  onto  the 
landing,  he  stopped,  knowing  that  Constance  had 
gone  to  see  who  it  was. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  work  of  mine  will  ever  get 
into  the  Academy,"  Dicky  said  at  a  venture. 

Mr.  Furlong  nodded  his  head. 

"Well,  there's  no  harm  in  trying,"  said  he. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  replied  Dicky  in  despair. 
"I  shall  send  it  up,  of  course,  because  that's  the  way 
to  make  money  and  get  yourself  known,  and,  so  far 
as  that  goes,  I  wouldn't  mind  getting  in.  Of  course, 
it's  cant,  nothing  but  cant  with  a  lot  of  'em,  who 
say  the  Academy's  no  good." 

Mr.  Furlong  sat  straighter  in  his  chair. 

"No  good!"  said  he. 

341 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Yes,  no  good,  and  it  isn't,  either.  Their  stand- 
ards are  rotten.  Why,  if  you  take  their  selection 
committee  alone,  you'd  know  why  that  was.  No 
artist  is  a  real  critic  of  another  man's  work,  even 
when  he's  successful.  Some  of  the  critics  are  fail- 
ures, too,  and  do  you  think  there's  any  man  big 
enough,  writing  for  the  papers  or  judging  for  any 
society,  to  admit  that  a  man  can  do  what  he  can't 
do  himself?  Why,  the  people  who  criticise  the 
Academy  are  usually  the  people  who  can't  get  in." 

"I'm  rather  surprised  to  hear  you  say  this,"  said 
Mr.  Furlong.  "I  always  thought  the  Academy  was 
the  high-water  mark." 

"It's  much  better  that  you  should,"  replied  Dicky. 
"It's  a  stale  wheeze  to  say  it  isn't.  It  is  the  high- 
water  mark,  of  course — the  high-water  mark  of  suc- 
cess, and  success,  I  suppose,  is  a  very  good  thing." 

"What  you  hope  for,  Dicky,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr. 
Furlong  with  a  laugh. 

Dicky  promptly  denied  that. 

"If  I  ever  get  that  sort  of  success,"  said  he,  "I 
shall  know  I'm  on  the  very  verge  of  going  under." 

"These  young  men  get  strange  ideas,"  thought 
Mr.  Furlong.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  liked  the 
spirit  it  exhibited.  With  his  limited  ideas  upon  art, 
it  were  as  scandalous  a  thing  to  decry  the  Royal 
Academy  as  to  his  sense  of  worship  it  would  be 
sacrilegious  to  criticise  the  Church  of  England.  He 
was  not  exactly  in  the  position  to  say  so,  but  he 

342 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

looked  at  Dicky  with  a  steady  eye,  saying  to  him- 
self, "He'll  know  what  I'm  thinking  about."  Dicky 
returned  that  look,  wondering  if  his  father  realised 
what  nonsense  he  had  been  talking. 

But  outside  that  room,  on  the  landing,  more  vital 
things  were  happening  than  any  discussions  upon 
Royal  Academies  or  the  lost  art  of  criticism,  which, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  matters  so  little  with 
people  who  can  choose  for  themselves. 

Without  knowing  it,  Constance  was  facing  one 
of  those  problems  in  life  upon  which  no  one  can 
pass  impartial  judgment.  At  the  sound  of  that 
knock,  she  had  opened  the  door  of  her  bedroom, 
and  there  stood  Mrs.  Baldwin — Mrs.  Baldwin,  none 
too  tidy,  escaped  from  her  duties  at  the  oil-shop  for 
five  minutes  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  her  pair  o' 
kids,  as  she  called  them — her  mother,  just  present- 
able, and  that  was  all. 

But  it  was  not  a  matter  of  presentability  alone. 
Fresh  from  depression  at  the  thought  of  what  ef- 
fect she  had  made  upon  Dicky's  father,  Constance 
knew  well  how  her  mother  would  be  a  seal  upon  her 
class.  There  was  no  stopping  to  pick  up  an  aitch  in 
Mrs.  Baldwin.  Where  it  fell,  it  lay,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  another  dropped  beside  it.  As  Con- 
stance had  once  said  herself,  there  was  no  getting 
the  paraffin  off  of  'er.  And  she  had  chosen  this 
moment  of  all  others  to  make  her  appearance. 

343 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

The  first  feelings  in  the  mind  of  Constance  were 
of  bitterness  and  despair. 

"Well,  what  do  yer  want,  mother?"  she  asked 
in  a  voice  which  Mrs.  Baldwin,  from  experience, 
knew  demanded  careful  treatment. 

"Got  a  touch  of  indigestion,  dear?"  asked  she,  and 
walked  into  the  bedroom,  through  such  narrow 
space  as  her  daughter  had  given  her  for  entrance. 
Constance  came  in,  closing  the  door.  She  knew 
her  mother  had  come  for  company;  knew  she  found 
her  days  dreary  in  the  oil  shop  now  that  she  was 
alone;  knew  that  she  would  come  twice  as  often  as 
she  did,  only  for  her  sensitive  fear  of  being  in  the 
way.  At  any  other  moment  she  would  have  wel- 
comed her,  for  there  was  a  soft  corner  in  the  heart 
of  Constance  for  her  mother,  with  all  her  follies. 
Now,  at  least  for  the  moment,  she  felt  nothing  but 
bitter  annoyance  that  Fate  should  thus  oppose  her. 

"Why  should  I  'ave  indigestion?"  Constance 
asked  sharply.  "P'raps  I  'ave.  We've  just  'ad 
tea." 

She  watched  her  mother's  face  as  she  made  this 
announcement. 

"Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  'ave  a  cup,  then?  I 
just  come  over  for  a  minute — thought  you  might 
give  me  a  cup.  The  smell  of  that  oil  shop  gets  on 
my  nerves  sometimes,  does  really.  Then  I  think 
of  you  'avin'  a  nice  'ot  cup  o'  tea  down  'ere,  and  I 

344 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

gets  fidgetty.  No  good  my  servin'  anyone  then,  I'm 
only  rude  to  'em.  Is  'e  workin'?" 

She  nodded  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  sit- 
ting room,  well  knowing  that  if  work  were  being 
done  in  there  it  was  no  place  for  her. 

Constance  looked  with  a  straight  eye  into  her 
mother's  face.  That  desire  of  the  poor  woman  for 
company,  the  old  remembrances  of  how  the  smell 
of  that  shop  could  get  on  the  nerves,  the  frequent 
wonder,  now  that  she  knew  of  the  country  herself, 
how  her  mother  could  bear  it  for  five  minutes,  and, 
with  it  all,  those  grey  hairs  she  had  once  known  to 
be  brown,  those  cheeks,  seared  with  wrinkles,  she 
had  once  known  to  be  smooth,  they  all  combined  to 
melt  her  bitterness  to  compassion.  She  still  hoped 
that  her  mother  would  go  away,  but  was  too  proud 
to  tell  a  lie  and  say  that  Dicky  was  working. 

"He's  inside,"  she  said.  "His  father's  there  with 
him." 

"  'Is  father?    The  old  gentleman?" 

"Yes." 

"  'E  doesn't  know,  do  'e?" 

"Know  what?" 

"That  you  ain't  married." 

"No." 

"What's  'e  like?  Quite  nice,  I  expect.  Proud 
of  you,  I'll  be  bound." 

"I  shouldn't  think  so,"  Constance  replied. 

"Why  not?" 

345 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Well,  we  ain't  their  class,  are  we?" 

"Oh,  like  that,  is  it?  If  'e  showed  it,  Vs  not 
much  class  'imself." 

"  'E  never  showed  it,"  said  Constance  quickly. 
"That's  only  what  I  suppose." 

"  'E  was  nice  to  yer,  then?" 

"Yes,  quite." 

"Of  course  'e  was,  why  shouldn't  'e?  I'm  curi- 
ous to  see  'im,  yer  know — that's  only  natural,  ain't 
it? — because  'e  might  'ave  been  your  father-in-law 
if  you'd  liked.  Anyway,  meetin'  Dicky's  family 
does  make  it  seem  a  bit  more  proper — don't  it?" 

"Do  you  really  want  to  see  'im?"  asked  Con- 
stance gently. 

"Course  I  do — is  there  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't?" 

There  were  a  thousand  reasons.  There  was  one 
paramount  beyond  them  all.  She  looked  at  her 
mother,  at  the  untidy  bonnet,  the  cape  she  had 
slipped  on  just  to  run  down  and  have  tea  with  her 
kids,  and  she  questioned,  not  whether  it  were  fair 
to  herself,  but  whether  it  were  fair  to  Dicky.  Fair 
to  herself  it  might  not  be,  but  her  mind  had  passed 
that  moment  when  such  thoughts  mattered.  She 
even  forgave  the  little  touch  of  snobbery  in  her 
mother's  desire  to  meet  Dicky's  father,  for  it  was 
snobbery,  human  enough,  certainly  English  enough. 
The  pathos  of  the  woman,  lonely  in  her  oil  shop, 
with  nerves  on  edge,  coming  down  to  them  for  com- 

346 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

pany  and  only  when  the  inclination  had  become  too 
strong  for  her  to  resist,  this  had  reached  the  large 
heart  of  Constance.  She  was  her  mother,  too,  and 
any  shame  of  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  shame  of  herself. 
She  was  too  proud  to  admit  that.  Yet  for  Dicky's 

sake It  was  well  indeed  that  they  had  never 

married! 

And  there  was  Mrs.  Baldwin  still  waiting  for  her 
answer.  With  a  sudden  impulse  Constance  gave  it. 
Without  a  word  she  set  about  the  tidying  of  the 
good  woman,  retying  the  bow  of  her  bonnet  strings, 
splaying  out  the  ends,  patting  them  down,  smooth- 
ing out  those  wrinkles  in  the  cape,  thrusting  in  be- 
neath the  bonnet  the  loose  and  straggling  wisps  of 
hair.  And  to  it  all,  with  a  pleased  smile  of  grati- 
fication on  her  face,  Mrs.  Baldwin  stood  as  good 
as  a  baby  in  a  bathtub.  She  knew  she  needed  a 
tidying  hand;  she  did  not  know  that  she  was  re- 
quired to  be  a  lady. 

The  moment  it  was  finished  the  door  of  the 
sitting  room  opened.  Dicky  came  in. 

"Hullo,"  said  he,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  Constance  waited,  with  heart  beating,  to 
know  what  he  would  do.  At  all  costs,  she  was  pre- 
pared to  take  her  cue  from  him.  Neither  of  them 
saw  how  closely  she  watched  his  face,  and  when  it 
broke  into  a  broad  grin  she  slowly  smiled  as  well. 

"Has  Constance  told  you?"  he  said  below  his 
breath.  "My  pater's  in  there.  It's  as  funny  as  a 
23  347 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Punch  and  Judy  show.  Come  on,  somebody  must 
help  me  out.  He's  talking  about  pictures — pic- 
tures! My  God!  Come  on!" 

He  took  Mrs.  Baldwin's  arm,  dragging  her  to 
the  door.  She  stopped  him  there  and  whispered  in 
his  ear.  There  was  no  hearing  what  it  was  she  said, 
but  Dicky's  answer  came  home  to  Constance  like  a 
gift  from  heaven. 

"What  rot!"  said  he.  "Do  you  know  what  my 
pater  was  before  he  married?" 

Mrs.  Baldwin  shook  her  head. 

"He  was  a  butler,  in  service,  handing  round  the 
wine.  What  rot!" 

Then  they  had  gone,  and  in  the  bedroom,  alone, 
Constance  held  her  hands  together,  her  cheeks 
burning  to  think  that  for  one  moment  she  had 
been  ashamed;  her  heart  still  beating,  wondering  if 
there  were  anyone  as  big  as  Dicky  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER    III 

FOR  a  long  time  that  summer  and  well  into 
the  autumn,  life  was  precarious  enough  for 
these  two  in  their  home  under  the  slates. 
To  begin  with,  there  was  no  engagement  for  Con- 
stance at  that  time  at  the  Middlesex.  An  oppor- 
tunity of  work  offered  in  the  provinces,  but  she  re- 
fused it,  declaring  that  seven  pounds  a  week  would 
not  take  her  away  from  Dicky.  He  was  well 
pleased  to  let  her  stay,  and,  when  a  Regent  Street 
dealer  made  him  a  tentative  offer  of  five  pounds 
for  one  of  his  wood-cuts,  was  so  convinced  that 
fortune  was  at  his  feet,  that  at  a  moment's  notice 
they  set  out  for  their  oft-frequented  inn,  the  Fox, 
in  Hampshire  on  the  road  to  Eversly. 

The  precariousness  of  existence  for  the  next  few 
months  all  arose  out  of  this.  With  enough  money 
for  a  return  ticket,  eager  as  children,  they  took  the 
train  to  the  nearest  station,  chartered  the  musty  fly, 
and  drove  with  all  the  suggestion  of  opulence  to 
the  inn.  When  the  driver  was  paid,  ten  shillings 
jingled  in  Dicky's  pocket.  But  he  had  left  his  ad- 
dress with  the  picture  dealer.  In  two  days  the  five 
pounds  was  to  be  sent  to  him. 

349 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"This  is  what  I  call  life,"  said  Dicky,  as  they 
sat  down  to  a  meal  of  bacon  and  eggs  in  their  little 
parlour  to  the  sound  of  the  clicking  of  bagatelle 
balls  in  the  bar  parlour  beyond. 

It  was  what  anyone  would  call  life. 

On  the  second  day  there  was  no  letter  from  the 
dealer. 

"It'll  come  to-morrow,"  said  Dicky,  and  went  out 
onto  the  village  green  playing  cricket  with  the  vil- 
lage boys  until  the  sun  began  its  dropping  down 
the  sky.  Then  they  set  off  to  walk  across  the  wide 
warm  flats  of  heather  where  the  larks  were  rising 
for  the  last  hour  of  the  day  and  the  red  sun  was 
turning  the  yellow  gorse  to  flame. 

"My  God!  Look  at  it  all!"  he  muttered,  and 
she  listened  most  when  he  was  talking  to  himself. 
"It  took  Turner  to  set  the  world  alight  with  a  sun- 
set." She  asked  no  more  who  Turner  might  be. 
She  had  learnt  all  about  Turner  from  Dicky.  It 
was  not  really  interesting  to  her  at  the  Tate  Gal- 
lery, but  she  had  spent  many  a  happy  hour  there 
with  him.  "That's  what  he  did,  you  know,"  said 
Dicky,  and  he  looked  round,  alight  himself,  into 
her  eyes. 

"Courage,  that's  what  it  wants,"  he  went  on. 
"Half  tones  are  no  good — half  colours,  half  meas- 
ures! That's  the  sort  of  thing  that  takes  your 
breath  away,  that  knocks  you  out."  He  flung  his 
hand  with  a  gesture  at  the  sunset,  the  broad  sea  of 

350 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

burning  heather,  the  flaming  islands  of  gorse.  "Half 
the  men  paint  in  their  studios,  and  what  the  devil 
can  you  see  in  a  studio !  I'd  like  to  live  out  in  a 
hut  in  a  place  like  this  and  let  them  take  my  stuff 
or  not,  as  they  wanted  it.  Fancy  having  a  show 
Sunday !  Fancy  having  a  lot  of  gaping  idiots  com- 
ing in  to  tea  and  talking  art  when  they've  never  felt 
beauty  for  one  minute  in  their  lives." 

"Shall  we  come  and  live  in  the  country  then, 
Dicky?  I'd  live  anywhere  you  like,  anyhow.  We 
could  get  on  all  right  in  a  little  hut.  I  wouldn't 
mind.  I  expect  it  'ud  be  bigger  than  our  two  rooms 
in  Great  Queen  Street." 

There  was  a  note  even  of  eagerness.  In  a  little 
hut  on  the  open  flats  of  heather  she  saw  Dicky  hers 
for  all  time.  But  it  was  that  note  of  eagerness  in 
her  which  brought  him  back  to  earth.  He  had  to 
get  on;  had  to  win  his  way,  and  believed,  as  they  all 
believe,  that  you  cannot  afford  a  hut  until  you  can 
buy  a  house.  For  that  is  the  poison  of  it.  Until 
the  house  is  bought,  each  nerve  is  strained  and  the 
very  best  is  done.  Not  one  of  them  calculates  upon 
the  discomforts  of  the  hut  when  once  the  house  is 
built;  not  one  of  them  thinks  how,  through  all  the 
ages  before  the  judgment  in  Eden,  man  was  a 
creature  of  ease,  and  needs  but  the  faintest  per- 
suasion from  the  Delilah  of  luxury  to  return  to  ease 
again. 

"No,  it  must  be  London  for  some  time  yet,"  said 
351 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

he.  "London  till  I  see  my  way,  and  then  this,  you 
and  I  and — this." 

She  came  from  that  moment  to  dread  her  Lon- 
don, yearning  for  the  country.  He  indeed  had 
made  it  alight  for  her.  It  was  those  people  with 
their  show  Sundays,  their  social  gatherings  in  draw- 
ing-room studios,  whom  she  feared.  Yet  his  was 
the  way  and  he  must  choose  it.  Her  belief  in  him 
was  great  enough  to  hope  that  he  at  least  would 
never  become  one  of  them.  Perhaps  would  they 
reach  the  country  before  then?  She  shut  her  eyes, 
and  still  could  feel  the  flaming  sunset  through  their 
lids. 

The  next  day  there  was  still  no  letter  from  the 
dealer.  In  some  apprehension  they  walked  into 
Yateley,  sending  a  telegram  from  the  little  post 
office  on  the  green.  The  following  morning  came 
the  reply  that  the  customer  who  had  contemplated 
buying  the  wood-block  had  decided  that  it  was  too 
broad  in  treatment.  It  had  been  returned  to  Great 
Queen  Street  with  many  thanks  for  the  opportunity 
of  purchase. 

Dicky  laid  the  letter  down  on  the  table,  and  Con- 
stance, who  had  been  reading  it  over  his  shoulder, 
snatched  it  up  again  in  disgust. 

"Oh,  they  are  beasts!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'd  like 
to  tell  that  dealer  what  I  thought  of  'im.  Mean 
beast!  'Asn't  got  the  sense  to  buy  it  'imself." 

"Takes  more  than  sense,"  said  Dicky.  "You 
352 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

want  courage  as  well  to  buy  a  good  thing."  And 
that  bravado  was  the  utmost  satisfaction  he  could 
get  out  of  it.  Yet  even  then  he  looked  up  with  a 
comical  grin  on  his  lips.  "But  how  are  we  going 
to  get  out  of  this?"  said  he,  and  he  laid  five  shillings 
and  threepence  down  on  the  table. 

There  was  one  way  out  of  it.  It  was  her  sug- 
gestion. Constance  had  a  voice;  she  could  sing. 
There  were  people  to  listen  to  her  in  London,  why 
not  in  the  streets  of  Camberley  and  Wokingham? 
She  insisted  that  she  would  go  alone  rather  than 
not  at  all.  They  walked  even  so  far  as  Reading 
one  day  and  returned  with  nine  shillings,  thrown  in 
coppers  and  sixpenny  pieces  into  Dicky's  cap.  Both 
made  a  joke  of  it,  counting  the  gains  as  they  walked 
back  to  the  Fox  at  night;  with  difficulty  keeping 
from  laughter  at  the  sight  of  the  passers-by  who 
stopped  to  listen,  attracted  by  Constance,  wonder- 
ing at  him. 

These  were  good  days,  with  the  warm  breath  of 
adventure  in  them;  but,  coming  back  to  London, 
they  found  arrears  to  be  met  and  nothing  with 
which  to  meet  them.  For  the  rest  of  that  summer, 
ordering  life  upon  one  first  principle  that  they  would 
take  no  help  from  Mrs.  Baldwin,  they  lived  in  the 
fear  of  what  Dicky  chose  to  call  his  bankruptcy. 
Rent  was  always  overdue;  bills  unpaid.  Unable 
even  to  afford  herself  a  new  pair  of  stockings,  Con- 
stance, calling  herself  an  inventor,  blackened  with 

353 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ink  the  white  skin  that  showed  through  an  offensive 
ladder  on  her  ankle,  and  was  sure  the  whole  world 
saw  the  trick. 

Yet  there  was  the  goodness  in  these  days,  too. 
Dicky  was  doing  better  work  than  ever.  He  cared 
for  nothing  so  long  as  she  found  contentment.  But 
that  contentment  which  showed  in  her  was  greatly 
for  his  benefit  alone.  Secretly  in  her  heart  she 
nursed  that  destiny  of  women  which  pursues  them 
in  joy  or  sorrow  with  inevitable  wonder  or  distress. 

When  the  cherry  trees  through  all  the  country- 
side where  they  wandered  were  bursting  white  in 
bloom,  when  birds  were  pairing  and  the  wryneck 
was  a-whistling  in  the  cuckoo's  call,  she  came  to 
know  that  she  was  to  be  a  mother. 

As  soon  as  they  had  returned  to  London  she  had 
gone  to  see  her  mother.  Notwithstanding  all  the 
affection  she  felt  for  her,  Mrs.  Baldwin  had  never 
been  the  recipient  of  her  daughter's  confidences.  It 
was  no  easy  matter  to  begin  them  then,  but  Con- 
stance came  straight  to  her  story,  prepared  for  the 
accusation  of  folly  which  she  would  not  admit  to 
herself  she  deserved. 

Much  to  her  surprise,  no  accusation  followed.  If 
ever  women  are  practical,  it  is  in  moments  such  as 
these.  Mrs.  Baldwin  listened  in  silence  until  she 
was  sure  what  was  coming,  and  then,  the  moment 
she  guessed,  began  tidying  up  the  room  while  she 
waited  for  the  complete  confession. 

354 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"What's  Dicky  say?"  she  asked  when  Constance 
had  finished. 

"  'Aven't  told  'im,"  she  replied. 

"Why  not?" 

'  'Cos  Vs  workin'  'ard  just  now,  and,  besides 
that,  Vs  makin'  a  printin'  press  for  'imself  out  on 
a  mangle  'e  bought.  The  one  at  the  school  ain't 
large  enough  for  the  wood-blocks  'e  wants  to  do.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  worry  'im  just  now.  'E's  worried 
enough  as  it  is." 

"  'Ow  about  yerself,  though?" 

"What  about  myself?" 

"Well,  what's  'is  old  wood-block,  or  'is  mangle 
printin'  press,  'pared  to  a  baby?  You've  lost  yer 
'ead  over  'im,  that's  what  you've  done,  Constance. 
'E  may  be  clever  an'  all  that,  an'  Vs  a  nice  boy — 
I've  always  said  'e  was — but  what's  all  'is  cleverness 
to  a  baby,  that's  what  I  want  to  know.  With  all  'is 
dodgin'  about  with  paints  and  stuff,  riggin'  up  print- 
in'  presses  out  of  old  mangles  and  messin'  away  on 
little  bits  of  paper,  'e  can't  make  nothin'  that's  goin' 
to  be  anythin'  like  a  baby,  can  'e?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Constance,  and  listened,  as  one 
listens  to  the  first  song  birds  of  the  year,  to  those 
stirrings  of  motherhood  in  her  heart.  It  was  a 
child  of  Dicky's  that  was  to  be  born;  but  was  it 
really  that  that  mattered  so  much  as  that  it  was  a 
child  at  all.  It  was  a  child  of  his;  but  hers  was 
the  possession  of  it  then.  Were  she  to  die,  it  would 

355 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

die  with  her.  Irrevocably  it  would  be  hers  to  call 
her  own. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  again. 

"Don't  know  what  yer  wonderin'  about,"  replied 
Mrs.  Baldwin.  "You  wait  till  the  little  thing's 
born,  you  won't  think  so  much  about  paintin'  and 
fiddlin'  about  then,  so  long  as  'e  gets  you  enough  to 
look  after  it  with.  I  can't  make  you  out,  Con- 
stance— straight,  I  can't.  You  never  used  to  give 
way  to  me  like  this,  I  know  that." 

She  looked  squarely  at  her  mother  with  the  eyes 
that  Dicky  knew. 

"You  'aven't  'card  'im  talk  like  I  'ave,"  said  she. 
"You  'aven't  'card  the  things  'e  says  about  'is  work. 
I  always  used  to  think  men  painted  pictures  and 
did  the  writin'  of  books  just  to  make  money.  And 
p'raps  they  do,  for  all  I  know.  I  only  know  Dicky 
doesn't.  There's  somethin'  that  makes  'im  work — 
and  work  'ard,  too — that  we  don't  know  anythin' 
about.  I  can't  explain  it.  It's  a  riddle  to  me. 
But  I  know  what  I  mean.  P'raps  you're  right  about 
when  the  baby's  born.  I  may  think  different 
then.  But  'e  won't;  not  in  the  bottom  of  'is  'eart 
'e  won't.  Why,  I  found  'im  the  other  day,  some- 
thin'  'ad  gone  wrong  with  the  printin'  press,  'e 
couldn't  get  it  to  come  anythin'  like  right.  Well, 
Dicky  ain't  no  baby,  but  'e  was  cryin'  'is  eyes  out. 
That's  what  I  mean.  A  man  don't  cry  if  'e  can't 
make  money;  'e  just  lumps  it.  And  I  know  Dicky 

356 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

better'n  you  do.  If  I  tell  'im  I'm  goin'  to  'ave  a 
baby,  I  know  what  'e  is;  Vll  worry  over  it  as  if 
'e's  goin'  to  'ave  it  'imself.  'Specially  as  we're  not 
married." 

All  the  conventionality,  all  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things  rose  to  the  surface  in  Mrs.  Baldwin  at  the 
sound  of  that. 

"Well,  yer  know  what  you've  got  to  do,  don- 
cher?"  said  she. 

"Do  what?"  said  Constance. 

"Well,  you've  got  to  get  married,  of  course." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  yer  don't  get  no  pity  from  me  if  you  'ave 
a  child  not  born  in  wedlock,  whatever  they  calls  it." 

"What's  the  difference?"  Constance  enquired. 
"You  didn't  make  no  fuss  about  our  livin'  together. 
I'm  not  goin'  to  force  'im  to  marry  me  if  that's 
what  you  think.  If  things  come  out  as  Mr.  Nibbs 
thinks  they  will,  and  I  know  they  will,  'e  can  get 
on  better  without  me.  I  shall  'ave  the  child,  and 
that'll  be  more  than  somethin',  won't  it?"  She  was 
thinking  of  it  as  Dicky's  child  then,  the  all  of  him 
that  would  be  left  to  her. 

"Well,  you  don't  get  no  pity  from  me,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Baldwin,  and  pulled  down  the  window  to  a 
resounding  noise  to  convince  herself  that  she 
meant  it. 

But  the  moment  Constance  had  gone,  and  she 
was  not  one  to  waste  time  when  it  came  to  the 

357 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

slamming  of  windows,  Mrs.  Baldwin  melted  into 
the  tears  that  were  her  customary  solace  in  mo- 
ments of  adversity. 

"Yer  can't  'elp  likin'  'er,"  she  sobbed.  "I  know 
I  can't.  She's  lost  'er  'ead  over  that  boy,  that's 
what  it  is;  she's  lost  'er  'ead  over  'im.  And  'e's  a 
nice  boy — I  will  say  that  about  'im — 'e's  a  nice 
boy." 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.   NIBBS  was   of  the   opinion  that  no 
printing  press — properly  so  called,   he 
added — could  ever  be  made  out  of  an 
old  mangle.     Emily,  justly  associating  the  machine 
with  the  weekly  washing,  had  a  poorer  opinion  of 
art  than  ever.     But  Dicky  struggled  on. 

"I'm  not  going  to  limit  myself  to  a  block  ten 
inches  by  six,"  he  declared.  "How  could  I  possibly 
do  what  I  wanted  to,  cramped  up  like  that?  The 
school  press  is  all  right  for  students  to  play  about 
on.  I'm  not  playing." 

Mr.  Nibbs  admired  his  determination,  but  de- 
spaired of  the  result.  For  all  their  bulk,  printing 
presses,  he  knew,  were  delicate  machines,  and  where 
was  any  delicacy  to  be  found  in  a  mangle? 

"But  'e's  a  plucky  young  fellow,"  he  said  to 
Emily;  "'e's  got  the  right  grit  in  'im.  It's  a  ten 
to  one  chance  against  'is  ever  making  anything  out 
of  that  mangle.  'E  knows  it,  too,  but  'e's  workin' 
at  it  every  night.  What  I'm  afraid  is  'e'll  be  ter- 
ribly dis'eartened  with  the  result.  And  I  know 
what  it  means  to  'im,  to  be  cramped  with  a  block  ten 
by  six.  It  don't  allow  'im  to  develop  'imself." 

359 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  from  a  gold  mount  he  was 
cutting  on  the  counter. 

"Emily,"  said  he,  "it's  an  awful  thing  to  think 
of  that  boy  'ampered  and  'eld  up  just  for  want  of  a 
printin'  press.  It  may  be  puttin'  'im  back  years,  a 
little  thing  like  that." 

Emily  raised  her  eyes  from  her  novelette,  quick- 
ly fixing  her  glance  upon  the  little  man.  She  knew 
what  he  was  leading  to.  Long  experience  had 
taught  her  what  happened  when  a  spirit  of  philan- 
thropy got  the  better  of  her  husband. 

"That's  quite  enough,"  said  she,  "quite  enough. 
We  ain't  an  institution.  We're  just  'usband  and 
wife  and  what  you  gets  over  and  above — and  it  ain't 
much — I  gets  to  the  good.  What  do  them  printin' 
presses  cost?"  she  added,  half  relenting  when  she 
saw  the  pained  expression  of  disappointment  in  his 
face ;  but  when  she  heard  it  was  a  matter  of  twelve 
pounds  or  so,  she  shut  up  her  book  without  even 
turning  down  the  page,  and  said  such  things  to  Mr. 
Nibbs  on  the  subject  of  that  charity  which  begins  at 
home  as  only  women  who  are  greatly  dependent  on 
it  can  possibly  think  of  saying.  What  is  more,  every 
single  word  of  it  was  true,  and,  being  susceptible  at 
all  times  to  the  truth,  Mr.  Nibbs  held  out  no  longer. 

But  fate  conjures  and  conspires  with  the  destinies 
of  men.  Some  weeks  later  the  electric  bell  at  num- 
ber twelve  Great  Queen  Street — that  electric  bell 
which  raised  their  quality  above  that  of  Mrs. 

360 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Cooper,  whose  summons  was  the  common  wire-rope 
contrivance  likely  to  be  pulled  out  of  joint,  which 
raised  them  higher  still  above  Mrs.  Beasly,  who 
had  no  bell  at  all  but  must  answer  the  knocker  on 
the  front  door — their  electric  bell  rang  loudly  one 
morning,  rang  persistently,  and  brought  Constance 
hurrying  from  the  bedroom  to  look  out  of  the  front 
windows  in  order  to  see  who  was  down  in  the  street 
below.  Cutting  out  a  fine  line  on  his  new  wood 
block,  the  first  that  was  to  be  tried  on  the  mangle 
press,  Dicky  did  not  even  look  round.  Breath  must 
be  held  over  these  delicate  operations.  The  flare 
of  trumpets  on  the  day  of  judgment  would  not  have 
raised  his  head  just  then. 

She  glanced  back  at  him,  clasping  her  hands  to- 
gether, her  breath  coming  quickly,  wondering  how 
she  would  break  it  to  him.  And  then  the  line  was 
finished.  He  turned  and  caught  her  look. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  he. 

"There's  a  cart,"  she  replied. 

"What  sort  of  a  cart?" 

It  had  entered  into  his  mind  now,  flashing  in  a 
thought  from  hers.  Rent  was  overdue.  Frequent 
applications  had  been  made,  suggestions  of  distraint 
and  all  those  horrors  of  compulsion  of  which  you 
realise  nothing  until  the  wolf  is  at  your  very  door. 
He  ran  quickly  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"They  shan't  take  the  press,"  said  he.  She  had 
thought  of  that  too,  and  the  bed  in  the  other  room, 

361 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

where,  when  Dicky  was  away  these  days,  she  often 
lay  in  sickness  nursing  the  secret  in  her  heart. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Somebody's  opened  the  door  for  them,"  said  he. 
"Silly  fools!" 

They  stood  there  together  then,  waiting,  as  the 
sound  of  footsteps  mounted  the  stairs. 

"There  are  two  or  three  of  them,"  he  muttered, 
and,  as  the  knock  fell  heavily  on  the  door,  her  hand 
stretched  out  and  touched  his.  She  went  to  the 
door,  and,  turning,  she  looked  about  her.  There 
were  the  things  they  had  called  their  own.  She  had 
thought  often  of  their  child  being  born  in  that  little 
room  inside.  Another  day  or  so  and  Dicky  might 
have  found  the  money.  Perhaps  they  would  listen 
to  that;  but  it  was  not  like  the  law  as  they  knew  it 
in  Drury  Lane. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Dicky. 

"Good  morning." 

He  was  handed  an  envelope,  and  hung  back,  hav- 
ing heard  of  summonses.  The  man  jerked  out  his 
hand,  when,  conscious  of  the  inevitable,  Dicky  took 
it  from  him,  read  the  contents  on  a  little  card  inside, 
then  looked  at  Constance.  She  came  at  once,  taking 
his  arm. 

"From  your  friend  in  the  train." 

That  was  all  she  read,  all  there  was  to  read. 

"What — what  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  printin'  press,  sir.  Where  do  yer  want  it?" 
362 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

He  stood  aside,  and  there  behind  him  were  two  men, 
resting  from  their  exertion  of  carrying  upstairs  the 
parts  of  a  large  machine.  Dicky  trembled  and  his 
voice  was  shaking  when  he  told  them  to  bring  it 
inside.  Piece  after  piece  they  carried  it  into  the 
room.  In  an  hour  it  was  fixed  up,  complete,  a  great 
big  press  with  levers  and  wheels  and  frames,  a  very 
toy  from  the  gods  with  which  the  mightiest  of  men 
might  play  at  life.  When  all  was  finished  they 
stood  there  panting,  out  of  breath,  enquiring 
whether  everything  was  to  his  satisfaction.  To  his 
satisfaction!  The  poorest  intelligence  must  have 
taken  their  meaning.  Dicky's  hands  went  to  his 
pockets,  knowing  what  was  there.  In  all  distress 
he  turned  to  Constance.  She  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  very,  very  sorry,"  said  he,  "but  do  you 
know  I  haven't  got  a  penny  in  the  place." 

Slowly,  one  after  another,  their  breath  regained, 
they  trooped  out  of  the  room  with  murmurs  and 
mutterings,  all  expressing  how  difficult  they  found 
it  to  believe. 


24 


CHAPTER   V 

MR.  NIBBS  had  the  solution  of  the  mystery. 
When,  at  the  first  moment  that  offered, 
he  went  down  to  the  Waterloo  Bridge 
Road,  Dicky  found  it  all  made  clear.  The  man 
who  had  bought  his  first  picture  had  bought  some 
of  his  wood  engravings,  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Nibbs, 
revealing  his  interest,  had  learnt  from  Mr.  Nibbs 
how  Dicky  was  struggling  to  convert  a  mangle  into 
a  printing  press,  was  none  other  than  his  friend  in 
the  train  who  had  come  up  with  him  from  Evesham 
to  London  that  morning  when  he  ran  away  from 
the  Mill. 

Chance  had  brought  him  to  see  that  first  picture 
of  Dicky's  in  Mr.  Nibbs'  window,  and  since  then 
he  had  followed  his  development,  visiting  the  little 
print-seller's  shop  two  or  three  times  a  year,  to 
learn  what  progress  he  was  making.  When,  for 
the  sake  of  the  story,  impelled  by  no  ulterior  mo- 
tive, Mr.  Nibbs  had  told  him  of  Dick's  struggling 
to  make  a  mangle  into  a  printing  press  to  develop 
the  study  of  his  wood  engravings,  the  stranger  had 
nodded  his  head  and  remarked: 

"If  he  ever  succeeds  in  getting  it  to  print,  it'll  be 
a  washed-out  business  at  the  best." 

364 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

And  that  had  pleased  Mr.  Nibbs  so  much  that 
he  had  chuckled  over  it  again  and  again.  It  was 
what  he  expected  of  the  experiment  himself,  only 
he  had  never  put  it  as  neatly  as  that.  He  had  even 
suspected  nothing  at  the  time,  when  the  stranger 
casually  enquired  the  cost  of  printing  presses  and 
where  such  machines  were  to  be  bought.  Now,  with 
Dicky's  information,  he  understood  it  all  and  re- 
membered many  things  besides  that  had  been  said. 

But  who  was  the  man?  Long  before  this  Dicky 
had  lost  the  visiting  card  which  he  had  given  him 
at  the  station  when  they  had  arrived  in  London. 
He  did  not  even  remember  his  name. 

"Well,  the  first  print  I  do  off  that  machine,"  said 
he,  "I  leave  here,  and  when  he  comes  again  you're 
to  give  it  to  him." 

In  six  weeks'  time  the  first  print  was  ready.  In 
triumph  Dicky  brought  it  to  Mr.  Nibbs.  There  was 
good  excuse  for  his  pride.  Inspiration  and  the  im- 
petus which  the  possession  of  that  frowning  mass 
of  machinery  had  brought  him  had  led  to  the  most 
arresting  piece  of  work  he  had  yet  done.  He  was 
his  own  block-maker  and  his  own  printer  now.  The 
finest  etcher  in  England,  the  greatest  wood-engraver 
in  the  world  was  no  more  than  that.  The  room  on 
the  top  floor  of  number  twelve  was  no  longer  called 
the  sitting  room,  but  the  printing  room.  Insisting 
against  all  his  well-meaning  but  only  gentle  protests, 
Constance  gave  up  the  whole  of  the  space  to  him, 

365 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

to  his  slabs  for  inking,  the  lines  upon  which  he  hung 
his  prints  to  dry. 

"I  don't  think  the  room  looks  really  bad,"  he 
had  said  when  every  stick  of  furniture  had  been 
cleared  out  and  sold  to  pay  the  rent  and  purchase 
inks  for  him.  "I  mean,  it  looks  workmanlike,  doesn't 
it?" 

It  was  a  place  like  heaven  to  him,  but,  catching 
an  expression  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  it  too,  a 
moment  of  remorse  smote  him,  tingled  hot  in  his 
cheeks.  The  next  moment  his  arms  were  round 
her  and  he  was  swearing  he  would  hire  a  room  that 
she  should  have  her  home  just  as  she  liked  it  best, 
calling  himself  a  selfish  beast  and  her  the  most 
generous  soul  in  all  the  world. 

"No,"  said  she  gently,  "we  won't  change  it.  I 
like  it  really — it's  like  you  say,  it  looks  like  work, 
and  that's  everything  to  you,  Dicky,  ain't  it?" 

It  hung  in  his  mind  that  he  had  heard  that  ques- 
tion before,  and,  in  his  pause  to  answer,  she  had 
read  the  deeper  truth.  Yet  his  arms  were  still 
about  her  neck,  his  voice  still  murmuring  that  she 
was  more  to  him  than  anything  beside,  and  that 
was  sweet  enough,  however  much  she  knew  it  was 
untrue. 

"Let's  look  at  the  print  again,  Dicky,"  said  she, 
and  together  they  stood  in  front  of  the  first  engrav- 
ing the  press  had  given  him. 

It  was  the  interior  of  Sardinia  Street  Chapel,  the 
366 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

old  chapel  as  it  stood  then,  the  red  lamp  hanging 
before  the  altar,  the  unlighted  candles,  pale  spikes 
pointing  into  the  darkness,  and  that  dim  bloom  of 
mystery  which  is  the  atmosphere  of  every  church  of 
Rome.  Almost  the  odour  of  incense,  long  burnt, 
reached  you  as  you  looked  at  it,  for  no  man  has 
there  been  to  touch  that  power  of  his,  that  quality 
of  catching  mystery  in  suspense  and  arresting  it 
before  your  eyes. 

She  knew  no  more  why  it  made  her  think  of  her 
child  than  he  could  have  supposed  the  thought.  Yet 
a  lump  pressed  in  her  throat  as  she  wondered 
whether  it  would  suffer  in  life  from  the  disadvan- 
tages of  its  birth. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  said  Dicky. 

"I  think  it's  wonderful,"  said  she,  but  had  really 
meant  her  child. 

It  was  when  he  returned  that  evening,  elated  with 
the  praise  of  Mr.  Nibbs,  that  Constance  knew  the 
moment  had  arrived  when  concealment  of  her  secret 
was  no  longer  possible.  Many  times  at  their  meal 
in  the  little  restaurant  of  Soho  she  tried  to  begin. 
But,  if  it  had  been  difficult  with  Mrs.  Baldwin,  it 
was  almost  impossible  with  him. 

That  he  would  be  kind  she  knew;  she  knew  he 
would  be  tender.  He  might  even  be  glad.  But  was 
the  temptation  to  marry  him  to  be  thrown  before 
her  again?  And,  if  it  were,  how,  for  the  child's 
sake,  could  she  resist  it? 

367 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

At  last  she  found  courage;  arrived  at  that  mo- 
ment of  impulse  when  the  first  words  are  said  and 
no  subterfuge  or  evasion  can  recall  them.  It  was 
not  at  their  meal  in  the  restaurant.  Courage  had 
been  wanting  there  and  the  lights  were  bright. 
People  were  there  to  see  their  faces.  It  was  not 
even  afterwards,  when  they  returned  home.  He 
began  at  once  preparing  his  coloured  inks  for  a 
fresh  print  of  the  chapel  engraving.  But  late  that 
night,  when  they  had  gone  to  bed,  when  the  candle 
had  been  extinguished  and  she  lay  there,  still  with 
her  thoughts  in  the  darkness,  the  words  slipped  sud- 
denly from  her  lips  before  almost  she  was  aware 
that  her  mind  had  been  made  up  to  say  them. 

"Dicky,"  she  whispered,  "what  should  we  do  if 
we  had  a  baby?" 

He  lay  as  still  as  she  before  he  answered.  In  a 
sudden  the  inevitability  of  life  had  made  itself  clear 
to  him.  Never  had  he  considered  it  before.  It 
was  as  when,  waking  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
when  life  is  at  its  lowest  ebb,  your  thoughts  turn 
of  a  sudden  to  the  idea  of  death  and  you  know  that 
your  day  must  come,  defy  it  as  you  will.  With  the 
daylight  the  thought  is  gone.  Only  at  times  does  it 
come  back  to  you.  And  now,  defy  it  as  he  might, 
Dicky  knew  that  he  was  against  that  law  of  life 
which  is  as  irrevocable  as  the  certainty  of  death. 
There  was  no  need  for  her  to  say  any  more  than 
that.  In  the  tone  of  her  voice,  in  the  stillness  of 

368 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

her  body  close  to  his,  he  knew  all  that  she  had 
to  say. 

"How  long  have  you  known?"  he  whispered  back. 

"Nearly  three  months,"  said  she. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?" 

"You  were  working — I  didn't  want  to  worry  you. 
We  owed  a  lot  of  money  then  and  you  were  trying 
to  make  the  printing  press." 

He  lay  still  with  his  thoughts  again,  then  slowly 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Do  you  never  think  of  yourself  at  all?"  he 
asked.  "Are  you  always  thinking  of  me  and  my 
work  first?" 

"It  means  such  a  lot  to  you,  Dicky,"  she  replied. 
"I  know  how  much  it  means." 

"Yes,  but  not  compared — with  this." 

Though  no  accusation  had  been  meant  by  her, 
his  conscience  troubled  him.  He  had  come  to  that 
moment  when  every  man  must  feel  his  own  inferi- 
ority, the  helplessness  of  his  creative  power  to  un- 
create  what  once  he  has  created. 

"You  wonderful  thing,"  he  said  at  last,  finding 
the  greater  power  in  her  and  gazing  with  his  own 
amazed  at  it.  "You  wonderful  thing,"  he  repeated, 
kissing  her  forehead  and  her  cheeks  while  she  lay 
there  in  his  arms,  warm  in  the  happy  pride  of  her- 
self, that  pride  which  so  many  men  have  made  a 
woman  feel  were  shame. 

They  lay  together  thus  through  long  moments  of 

369 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

silence,  thinking — he  his  man's  thoughts,  she  her 
woman's,  so  far  divided  by  their  separate  natures, 
so  much  alike  in  their  souls. 

"If  it's  a  boy,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  dear  thing, 
if  it's  a  boy." 

"Another  Dicky,"  she  whispered,  "another  you." 

"He  can  be  better  than  me,"  said  Dicky. 

"Never  in  all  the  world,"  she  told  him,  and  freed 
the  arm  on  which  she  was  lying,  to  wind  it  round 
his  neck. 

Then  they  began  the  building  of  those  castles  in 
the  air  of  which  life's  children  are  such  cunning 
architects.  Palace  upon  palace  they  had  made, 
towering  into  a  sky  that  was  always  blue,  in  which 
the  sun  was  ever  brilliant. 

"But  you  realise  one  thing,  don't  you?"  said  he 
at  last. 

She  held  her  breath. 

"We're  going  to  be  married  at  once." 

Insensibly  he  felt  the  relaxation  of  her  arm  about 
his  neck. 

Even  for  the  sake  of  their  child,  that  was  a  thing 
she  had  sworn  that  she  would  never  do. 

"We're  going  to  be  married,"  he  repeated,  and 
in  that  quietness  of  his  voice  she  knew  there  was  no 
escape. 


CHAPTER   VI 

WHEN  Mrs.  Baldwin  heard  of  it,  her  state- 
ment that  Dicky  was  just  the  gentleman 
she  expected  he  would  be  was  full  of  a 
joyous  hilarity.  Her  very  attitude,  hands  on  the 
hips  and  head  nodding,  was  the  clear  emphasis  of 
victory. 

"I  ain't  what  you  call  squeamish  about  them 
things,"  she  said.  "I  don't  see  no  difference  between 
weddin'  lines  and  no  weddin'  lines  myself;  it  don't 
keep  people  together  if  they  don't  want  to  be  kep'." 
And  all  this  was  the  cry  of  the  urchin,  king  of  his 
mud  castle,  whom  none  could  dislodge.  As  if  con- 
scious of  the  boast  of  it,  she  added  that  she  pre- 
ferred the  wedding  lines  of  the  two.  "It  do  give 
a  sort  of  air  about  it,"  she  said.  "Nobody  can't 
say  nothin'  to  yer,  and  when  the  clergyman  comes 
around  you  feel  you're  as  good  as  what  'e  is." 

"It's  no  question  of  whether  'e's  a  gentleman  or 
not,"  replied  Constance.  "  'Twas  I  said  we  wouldn't 
be  married,  and  we  wouldn't  be  married  now, 
neither,  only  'e  'as  the  right  to  make  me.  It's  'is 
child  as  well  as  mine." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  declared  that  she  did  not  believe 
such  stuff. 

371 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I  never  saw  nothin'  against  your  marryin'  'im 
from  the  first." 

"You  never  would,  mother,"  said  Constance; 
"you  never  will,  not  even  when  Vs  a  great  man, 
and  I'm  makin'  a  blitherin'  idiot  of  meself  at  'is 
dinner  table  when  Vs  got  a  lord  this  and  lady  that 
to  dine  with  'im." 

Mrs.  Baldwin  pooh-poohed  such  possibilities. 

"  'E's  only  an  artist,"  said  she.    "  'E  only  paints." 

"Yes,  you're  thinkin'  of  the  men  'oo  come  in  for 
six-penn'orth  o'  white  lead  and  a  'alf-pint  of  oil. 
You  don't  know  what  an  artist  is.  You  wait  till 
Vs  finished  the  portrait  Vs  doin'  of  me,  then  you'll 
see." 

They  were  married  in  secret  in  the  little  registry 
office  in  Henrietta  Street,  setting  off  from  their 
rooms  in  Great  Queen  Street,  where,  like  a  pair 
of  children,  they  had  slept  together  the  night  before. 

"There,"  said  Dicky  when  they  came  out,  "no- 
body can  take  you  from  me  now,"  and  into  her  hand, 
ready  to  take  his,  he  slipped  a  little  parcel,  some- 
thing he  had  hurried  out  to  buy  that  morning.  She 
could  not  wait  till  she  got  back  to  open  it.  In  a 
quiet  corner  of  Covent  Garden  market  she  pulled 
the  paper  wrapping  from  off  the  box,  opened  the 
lid,  and  disclosed  a  bracelet,  rolled  gold,  something 
that  cost  him  ten  and  six  and  was  worth  a  thousand 
pounds  to  her. 

"Dicky!"  she  whispered. 
372 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Mrs.  Furlong,"  said  he,  at  which  her  cheeks  lit 
up  to  sudden  crimson. 

They  had  a  honeymoon  that  day,  dinner  in  Soho 
and  a  box  presented  to  them  at  the  Middlesex  music 
hall.  She  applauded  everyone  who  came  onto  the 
stage. 

"Oh,  the  difference  it  makes,"  said  she,  revealing 
all  her  generosity.  "To  get  up  there  be'ind  those 
bloomin'  lights — oughtn't  I  to  say  bloomin',  Dicky?" 

"Doesn't  matter,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

"Well,  you  don't  know  what  it's  like  to  'ear  just 
a  'and  or  two  and  all  the  rest  talkin'  while  you  sing 
the  'eart  out  of  yourself,  and  when  you  come  off  to 
see  the  next  turn  ready  to  go  on,  just  as  'opeful  as 
what  you've  been  yerself.  When  they  don't  take 
any  notice  of  yer  in  the  'ouse,  it's  like  bein'  'it  on 
the  face  with  somethin'  that  only  'urts  your  pride." 

"Yes,  but  I'd  make  'em  take  notice,"  said  Dicky. 

"Ah,  you  would,"  she  replied,  "but  then  you're 
different.  You've  got  brains.  Most  of  these  'ave 
only  got  'ands  and  feet.  Wonder  when  I  shall  be 
doin'  it  again." 

He  took  her  hand  gently,  as  though  she  had  all 
the  fragility  of  a  child. 

"Not  till  afterwards,"  he  whispered;  "p'r'aps  not 
even  then.  You'll  have  to  take  terrible  care  of 
yourself." 

Indeed,  he  took  the  greatest  care  of  her  himself. 
Every  word  of  it  was  true  when  she  had  said  that 

373 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

he  would  worry  over  it  as  much  as  if  he  were  going 
to  have  the  child  himself.  Time  and  again  she 
found  his  eyes  watching  her,  when  she  was  conscious 
of  those  moments  through  which  a  woman  sits 
caught  in  the  dream  of  contemplation. 

"Would  you  be  too  tired  to  sit  like  that  for  a 
bit?"  he  said  suddenly  one  day,  arresting  her  mood, 
seeing,  with  the  full  comprehension  of  his  imagina- 
tion, that  it  was  a  moment  in  the  lives  of  all  women; 
believing,  with  that  undaunted  ambition  of  his,  that 
he  could  carry  it  to  his  canvas  and  make  the  world 
see  all  women  as  he  saw  her  then. 

She  shook  her  head.  She  knew  that  note  in  his 
voice,  when  a  sudden  vitality  overstrung  it  like  a 
fiddle  string. 

"Coin'  on  with  the  portrait?"  she  asked. 

He  went  for  canvas,  charcoal  and  easel,  shaking 
his  head. 

"Not  going  to  do  the  portrait  now,"  said  he; 
"going  to  do  this  instead.  There's  more  than  a 
portrait  in  this." 

She  guessed  how  much  more  there  was  and  smiled 
at  him  and  smiled  at  the  thought  of  her  child. 

"Try  and  forget  you're  sitting  for  anything," 
said  he.  "Just  go  on,  dream  away,  think  of  what 
you  were  thinking  then.  Forget  all  about  me." 

But  in  half  an  hour  she  was  tired.  Then,  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eyes,  she  snatched  a  glance  at  him. 
The  fire  of  it  was  still  blazing  in  his  face.  He  was 

374 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

running  backwards  and  forwards  to  his  canvas;  at 
last  had  thrown  his  charcoal  away  on  the  floor  and 
was  mixing  paints  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  his 
palette,  mixing  them  as  though  a  moment  lost  were 
a  lifetime.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  disturb 
him  then  and  still  sat  on  till  an  hour  had  struck. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  the  pinched  look  in  her 
cheeks  and  threw  his  brushes  down,  cursing  himself 
for  a  thoughtless  fool;  running  downstairs  to  fetch 
her  brandy,  tending  to  her  with  all  the  gentleness 
of  a  woman. 

It  was  not  until  the  colour  had  come  back  into 
her  cheeks  and  she  had  asked  herself  how  he  had 
done  that  he  thought  of  speaking  of  his  work.  Then 
he  flew  off  into  a  torrent  of  enthusiasms;  turned  the 
canvas  for  her  to  see  and  showed  her  all  that  he 
was  going  to  do. 

"The  contemplation  of  maternity,"  he  said  he 
was  going  to  call  it.  Indeed,  in  the  rough  ground 
work  which  he  had  done  in  that  first  hour,  she  could 
feel  her  own  thoughts  in  the  simple  pose  of  the 
figure  before  her.  From  the  canvas  she  looked  up 
at  him  in  admiring  bewilderment. 

"  'Ow  did  yer  know  that  was  what  I  was  thinkin', 
Dicky?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  His  thoughts  were  too 
nearly  with  his  work  to  answer  such  a  question  as 
that.  But  she  went  on,  not  waiting  for  his  reply. 

"I  think  you're  very  wonderful,  Dicky,"  she  said 
375 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

simply.  "Yer  seem  to  know  such  a  lot  about  the 
insides  of  people — know  what  they  think,  I  mean. 
Fancy  paintin'  thoughts,  fancy  paintin'  thoughts 
like  them.  D'yer  think  everybody'll  see  what  it 
means?" 

"They've  got  to,"  said  he.     "I'll  make  'em." 

The  next  sitting  she  gave  him  he  could  do  nothing. 
All  the  time  he  was  fearing  her  fatigue.  The  fear 
got  into  his  hands.  His  brushes  would  not  work  for 
him.  At  last  he  put  his  palette  down. 

"It's  not  a  bit  of  good,  my  dear;  won't  come. 
Something's  wrong,  I  suppose."  But  he  would  not 
tell  her  what  it  was,  and  went  out,  walking  up  and 
down  the  street  outside,  telling  himself  that  no  work 
of  his  was  as  great  as  the  moments  through  which 
she  was  about  to  pass,  forcing  himself  to  the  belief 
that  all  he  said  was  true. 

And  she,  half-divining  what  had  been  his  hin- 
drance, suggested  herself  the  next  day  that  he  should 
work  again.  This  gave  him  confidence.  "She 
doesn't  feel  so  tired  to-day,"  he  told  himself,  and 
mixed  his  paints  with  the  old  energy,  setting  to 
work  without  a  thought  of  her. 

Then  expression  carne  upon  the  canvas  as  if  by 
magic.  Brush  stroke  after  brush  stroke  fell,  in- 
spired with  the  vigour  of  his  imagination.  The 
pinched  look  came  into  her  cheeks  and  he  saw  none 
of  it.  Glance  after  glance  she  shot  at  him  in  hope 
to  catch  his  eye.  And  then  the  room  grew  misty. 

376 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

She  saw  him,  still  in  all  his  energy,  working  away, 
but  so  far,  so  far  off.  At  last,  with  a  little  sigh, 
her  head  fell  limply  and  all  the  room  and  all  the 
sight  of  him  was  blackened  out  to  nothingness. 


CHAPTER   VII 

WITH  that  anxiety  of  expression  which 
Constance  had  come  to  know  arose  out 
of  his  tenderness  for  her,  Dicky  spoke 
of  West  End  doctors,  the  best  that  could  be  pro- 
cured. This  was  as  the  days  drew  on  and  the  "Con- 
templation of  Maternity"  had  long  been  finished. 

She  laughed  at  his  fears,  asking  if  he  thought  she 
were  the  first  woman  who  had  ever  brought  a  child 
into  the  world. 

"I  shall  send  you  away  till  it's  over,"  she  de- 
clared, "if  you're  goin'  to  worry  about  it." 

"You're  such  a  kid,"  said  he. 

"All  the  better  for  me,"  said  she.  "I'm  twenty. 
Girl  of  fifteen  had  a  baby  in  Peabody  Buildin's  the 
other  day.  How  were  you  goin'  to  pay  for  the 
West  End  doctor,  Dicky?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  she  laughed  at  him  again. 
He  talked  about  kids!  She  looked  at  him  as  in  a 
few  months  she  would  be  looking  at  her  child. 

Doctor  O'Shea  she  would  have,  with  his  dispen- 
sary in  Drury  Lane — the  little  Irish  physician  living 
amongst  the  slum  population  of  London,  amidst  the 
filth  and  the  squalor  of  it,  cheerfully  holding  to  his 

378 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

ideals,  to  his  saints  and  his  Virgin  of  Immaculate 
Conception,  with  sin  and  shame  and  horror  all 
round  him,  yet  still  believing  in  beauty  as  a  real 
thing  of  life;  hard  put  to  it  even  to  deny  its  fairies. 

He  began  his  casual  visiting  at  number  twelve, 
visits  that  grew  more  frequent  as  time  drew  on. 
He  had  known  Constance  from  a  child;  was  well 
aware  of  the  lawlessness  of  her  type  and  would 
have  been  neither  surprised  nor  shocked  had  he 
heard  they  were  not  married. 

He  had  his  ideas  about  pictures,  and,  as  often  as 
not,  it  was  that  wild  young  fella  he  came  to  see  when 
he  sat  listening  for  an  hour  to  Dicky's- unorthodox 
views  upon  art.  Such  ideas  as  he  had  himself  he 
had  gathered  together  in  the  town  of  Cork,  where 
for  a  time  he  had  been  a  student  at  the  art  schools 
before  he  went  to  Queen's  College  to  take  up  medi- 
cine. And  to  these  ideas  as  to  his  ideals  he  clung. 
Nothing  could  shake  him  from  them.  In  those  days 
he  was  an  encouraging  influence  to  Dicky,  who 
learnt  much  of  himself  in  his  heated  arguments 
against  the  little  doctor. 

"Me  fine  bhoy,"  said  he  at  the  conclusion  of  all 
these  discussions,  "ye  can't  paint  a  thing  what  hasn't 
got  a  shape  to  ut.  If  ye  want  to  paint  holiness,  ye 
must  paint  the  Pope  or  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  then 
shure  'twill  be  his  Holiness  yeer  paintin'  and  not 
yeer  own  idea  av  ut  at  all." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  see  anything 
25  379 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sacred  in  the  world  except  the  things  that  are 
labelled?" 

"I  do  indeed.  I  see  things  sacred  in  Drury 
Lane  and  'tis  no  easy  job  for  a  man  to  be  doin' 
that,  without  he's  the  worse  for  drink  and  there's  a 
halo  over  his  own  tumble-down  bed  in  his  own 
tumble-down  attic." 

"Well,  if  you  see  it" — and  Dicky  was  shouting 
by  this — "it's  there,  and  if  it's  there  it's  got  some 
sort  of  shape  to  it." 

"It  has  indeed,  but  it  'ud  take  ye  at  yeer  cutest 
to  put  a  measure  round  the  thing  and  tell  me  the 
size  av  ut,  and  shure  if  'tis  no  size  at  all  'tis  no 
shape  at  all.  Now,  mind  ye,  yeer  a  very  claver 
young  fella" — with  which  he  bestowed  a  wink  upon 
Constance  to  make  salutary  his  praise  of  Dicky — 
"and  ye  can  take  a  tip  from  me  now,  for  I'm  an  old 
man,  though  not  as  old  as  I  look." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Paint  the  things  ye  know  something  about.  Ye 
won't  know  anything  about  holiness  till  ye  become 
a  good  Catholic — which  is  a  pity  for  ye  because  I 
don't  believe  ye'll  ever  be  anything  at  all.  But  if 
ye  ever  do  become  a  good  Catholic,  then  ye  can 
paint  a  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  like  them  old 
fellas  they  call  masters,  and  faith,  if  'tis  a  good 
picture,  ye'll  have  got  nearer  to  holiness  than  eyer 
ye  did  when  ye  sat  down  and  painted  the  corner  of 

380 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

a  wood  with  a  wee  bit  of  trees  and  stuff  and  tried 
to  tell  me  that  the  idea  av  ut  was  holiness." 

"Well,  what  effect  does  it  produce  on  you?"  de- 
manded Dicky,  as  he  turned  the  picture  they  were 
discussing  to  catch  the  most  favourable  light. 

The  little  doctor  looked  at  it  steadily  for  the 
twentieth  time. 

"Well,  d'ye  want  to  know  what  it  really  makes 
me  think  of?"  said  he.  "Not  that  it's  like  the  place, 
mind  ye — 'tis  no  more  like  the  place  than  this  might 
be  the  dining  room  at  Dublin  Castle — but  it  makes 
me  think  av  ut.  It  makes  me  think  av  a  place  in 
the  woods  by  Rochestown,  outside  Cork,  where  I 
courted  a  young  girrl — not  the  one  I'm  married  to, 
mind  ye — but  one  of  those  girrls  ye  fall  in  love 
with  when  yeer  too  young  to  know  any  more  about 
her  than  the  colour  of  her  eyes  and  a  queer  way  she 
had  that  made  ye  feel  funny  at  the  time,  of  pro- 
nouncing her  r's  as  if  they  was  w's — perhaps  the 
one  girrl  ye  can  never  quite  forget.  There  are 
times  still,  when  I'm  feelin'  good  in  meself,  when 
I've  said  a  good  confession  and  I  feel  as  if  God  was 
pattin'  me  on  the  back  for  a  good  bhoy — there  are 
times  like  that  I  think  av  her  yet.  And  that  picture 
of  yours  reminds  me  of  the  place  in  Rochestown 
woods  where  I  kissed  her.  Now  that's  the  trooth, 
and  that's  all  yeer  picture  makes  me  think  of." 

Dicky's  eyes  were  sparkling  with  excitement. 

"And  it's  not  a  bit  like  the  place?"  said  he. 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"Divil  a  bit." 

"Then  it  suggests  something  that  has  no  shape 
or  form  or  even  colour.  And  I  bet  you  what  you 
like  that,  if  you'd  told  us  that  story  under  any  other 
circumstances  than  this  argument,  you'd  have  admit- 
ted that  that  was  one  of  the  holiest  moments  of 
your  life." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  not  admitting 
defeat,  but  incapable  of  defence. 

"I'd  like  to  see  ye  try  yeer  hand  at  a  portrait," 
said  he,  "something  that  ye  could  measure,  and  if 
yeer  measurement  wasn't  right,  shure  'twould  be 
wrong  and  there'd  be  no  argument  about  it  at  all." 

The  reply  to  this  was  the  "Contemplation  of  Ma- 
ternity." Dicky  brought  it  out  as  you  would  put  the 
ace  on  the  king  of  trumps.  Not  a  word  was  said 
while  the  doctor  looked  at  it.  Constance  glanced  at 
him  and  at  Dicky.  Dicky  looked  only  at  the  pic- 
ture. There  is  a  characteristic  mental  attitude  of 
the  creator  when  he  knows  what  he  has  done  is 
good.  The  most  inspired  of  histories  remarks  upon 
it.  And  it  is  the  same  mental  attitude  to-day. 

"When  did  ye  do  this?"  asked  O'Shea. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  it  looks  to  me  as  if  it  had  just  been  fin- 
ished, and  I  don't  know  that  I'd  have  painted  her 
meself  when  she  was  frettin'  about  the  child.  Well, 
I  wouldn't  like  to  call  it  frettin' — there's  no  need  to 
be  frettin'.  But,  mind  ye,  if  I'd  never  seen  the 

382 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

original  and  that  was  just  a  portrait  of  a  woman  I 
didn't  know " 

"Yes — yes?"  said  Dicky. 

"Well,  I'd  say  she  was  thinkin'  about  somethin' 
pretty  deeply  and,  being  a  doctor,  I  might  have  seen 
it  was  that." 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  called  it?"  asked  Dicky. 

"Well,  I  suppose  ye've  called  it  Mrs.  Richard 
Furlong — ye've  got  enough  cheek  on  ye  for  six." 

"I've  called  it  'The  Contemplation  of  Mater- 
nity.' " 

The  little  man  reached  for  his  hat  and  stood  up. 

"Ye're  a  queer  lad,"  said  he.  "Ye  always  seem 
to  have  done  the  thing  that  people  think  ye  have. 
I  suppose  ye  called  ut  that  the  moment  after  what  I 
said." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  he  opened  the  door 
into  the  street,  the  little  doctor  took  his  arm. 

"Look  after  her,"  said  he;  "let  her  take  it  aisy." 

"Don't  you  think  she's  getting  on  well,  then?" 
Dicky  was  up  with  the  note  of  apprehension  at 
once. 

O'Shea  lifted  his  eyes  in  despair. 

"Can't  I  give  ye  the  most  ordinary  piece  av  ad- 
vice," said  he,  "without  yeer  lepping  to  childish  con- 
clusions? Upon  me  soul,  there  ought  to  be  a  law 
forbiddin'  bhoys  from  marrying.  I  wouldn't  mind 
about  the  girrls.  If  ye  were  to  put  one  av  thim  on 
a  desert  island  tin  thousand  miles  from  a  doctor, 

383 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

they'd  make  a  fist  av  ut  one  way  or  another,  they 
would  so.  Will  ye  just  do  as  I'm  tellin'  ye  and  let 
herself  take  ut  aisy.  D'ye  think  yeer  the  only  man 
as  ever  had  a  child  bi  his  wife  ?  Ye  are  not.  There'll 
be  four  to-morrow  mornin'  in  Drury  Lane  who've 
had  the  sinse  to  get  meself  to  look  after  them." 

He  shut  the  door  himself  with  a  laugh,  and  Dicky 
faced  the  stairs  alone. 

Why  had  he  heard  that  tone  of  anticipation  in 
the  doctor's  voice?  Was  it  his  imagination?  Was 
it  the  anticipation  in  himself?  He  wondered  what  he 
would  do  without  Constance,  where  he  would  turn, 
whether  his  work  would  mean  enough  to  him  to 
make  bearable  the  loss  of  her.  Yet  the  doctor 
thought  nothing  of  child-bearing.  It  was  a  common 
occurrence  in  his  daily  round.  But  then  was  not 
death  almost  as  common  as  well,  and  did  he  regard 
that  much  more  seriously  than  the  other? 

In  a  sudden  panic  of  his  thoughts,  he  hurried  up 
the  remaining  stairs.  Constance  was  sitting  by  the 
window.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  she  opened 
them  as  he  entered.  He  came  quickly  to  her  chair 
and  knelt  beside  her. 

"I  should  never  find  another  like  you,  my  dear," 
he  whispered. 

"Always  think  that,  my  dear,"  said  she;  "that's 
all  I  want — and " 

"And  what?" 

"Just  the  other  little  Dicky,  that's  all." 
384 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IT  was  a  Saturday's  child,  a  Saturday  that  Dicky 
long  remembered.  While  Doctor  O'Shea  was 
in  the  top-floor  bedroom  of  number  twelve, 
Dicky  was  pacing  the  pavement  in  the  street  below, 
his  spirit  spurred  with  imagination,  suffering  all  the 
pains  of  childbirth,  his  body,  numbed,  wandering 
wherever  his  feet  led  him,  conscious  of  no  sensation. 

In  desperation  he  opened  the  door  of  the  little 
tailor's  shop  where,  if  you  need  livery  for  your  foot- 
man, there  are  the  patterns  to  hand;  pictures,  too, 
of  gentlemen  in  frock  coats  and  glittering  hats,  such 
as  Great  Queen  Street  knows  of  by  repute  in  the 
West. 

Mr.  Wheedle  greeted  him  with  a  cheerful  coun- 
tenance. This  was  the  first  sign  of  business  he  had 
had  for  three  days.  True,  he  was  doing  his  own 
cutting  out  as  Dicky  entered.  He  came  forward, 
snipping  the  large  scissors  in  his  hand — but  that  is 
not  really  business.  Anyone  can  do  that  and  go  on 
doing  it  till  the  rent  is  overdue.  Only  then  does  it 
become  difficult,  because  cutting  out  cloth  and  snip- 
ping a  tailor's  scissors  do  not  really  suggest  a  tailor's 
business  unless  the  rent  is  paid.  Mr.  Wheedle  was 
only  suggesting. 

385 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"A  new  suit,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Wheedle.  "Let  me 
see,  I  haven't  made  a  suit  for  you  for  some  time." 

"I  didn't  want  a  suit,  Mr.  Wheedle,"  said  Dicky. 

"No?"  said  the  little  tailor,  inferring  that  there 
were  other  things  besides  suits,  and  if  it  were  in  his 
power  to  make  them  he  would.  He  snipped  his 
scissors  again,  but  knew  that  that  was  not  very 
lucrative. 

"I  just — just  came  in  for  a  chat,"  said  Dicky. 

Mr.  Wheedle  shut  the  scissors  slowly.  It  was 
not  as  if  he  had  been  asked  to  be  paid  for  the  last 
suit.  Quite  willingly  he  would  have  taken  another 
order  and  set  to  work  the  very  next  day,  chalking 
and  cutting  out  and  feeling  as  if  things  were  really 
looking  up  a  bit.  Yet  he  smiled  in  all  amiability 
and  said  he  was  very  pleased,  he  was  sure. 

"It's  a  nice  day,  sir,"  he  added,  which,  if  it  were 
only  a  chat  that  the  young  gentleman  wanted, 
seemed  the  proper  way  to  begin  it. 

"Yes — yes,  it  is,"  replied  Dicky,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  the 
day  it  was. 

"Paintin'  goin'  along  all  right,  sir?" 

"Yes,  very  well." 

"Smelly  job,  sir,  ain't  it?" 

"You  don't  notice  it,"  said  Dicky. 

"No,  I  suppose  not — I  suppose  not.  Though  they 
say  these  painters  as  do  housework — they  suffer 
from  it,  sir,  so  I've  heard.  All  quite  well  at  home, 

.386 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sir?"  His  scissors  had  begun  snipping  again.  No 
business  was  doing.  He  had  become  reconciled  to 
that.  The  disappointment  was  over,  and  it  was  as 
well  to  do  something. 

"My  wife's  not  well,"  said  Dicky  sharply. 

"Indeed,  sir,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  Influenza? 
They  say  there's  a  lot  of  it  about." 

"No,  the  doctor's  with  her  now.  She's — she's 
having  a  baby." 

The  little  tailor  laid  his  scissors  down.  Had 
Dicky  only  said  that  at  first,  Mr.  Wheedle  would 
have  understood  long  ago.  He  remembered  his 
own  first  child  and  the  cut  of  the  coat  he  had  made 
that  day  it  was  born.  A  chat!  Why,  of  course 
he  didn't  want  a  new  suit!  He  wouldn't  know  how 
to  choose  the  material  if  he  did. 

"She's  doin'  well,  I  'ope,  sir.  Well,  of  course  she 
is — a  fine  young  woman  like  that.  I've  'eard  'er 
sing  at  the  Middlesex,  sir,  over  and  over  again,  I 
'ave.  Great  favourite  she  is  there." 

"Yes,  I  think  she's  strong,"  said  Dicky. 

"Strong?     Why,  she's  made  for  a  mother,  sir." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  you've  only  got  to  look  at  'er,"  said  Mr. 
Wheedle.  "But  it's  a  trying  time — you  get  used  to 
it,  though.  It's  the  first  one  there's  all  the  fuss 
about." 

"I  suppose  it  is — dangerous,  isn't  it?" 

Unfortunately,  Mr.  Wheedle  received  the  impres- 
387 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

sion  that  he  was  being  referred  to  as  an  authority 
and,  had  it  been  the  cut  of  a  coat,  he  would  have 
taken  no  less  pleasure  in  being  dogmatic  about  it. 
To  be  an  authority  upon  anything  makes  the  day 
pass  as  if  in  the  way  of  business. 

"I  wouldn't  say  dangerous,"  said  he  dubiously,  at 
which  Dicky  shuddered.  "My  wife  was  very  ill 
after  her  first  child,  very  ill  she  was,  but  the  second 
and  third  she  was  well  enough,  and  the  fifth — well, 
it  didn't  worry  her  at  all.  She  was  up  working  about 
in  the  house  a  week  afterwards." 

Dicky  began  to  wish  he  had  never  come  in  to  chat 
with  Mr.  Wheedle,  much  more  that  he  had  never 
told  him  what  was  happening  at  number  twelve. 
What  was  the  good  of  hearing  that  Mrs.  Wheedle 
was  very  well  with  the  birth  of  her  fifth  child,  if  she 
was  very  ill  with  her  first?  In  an  effort  to  change 
the  conversation,  he  thought  of  the  suit  that  had 
never  been  paid  for,  and,  feeling  in  his  pocket,  he 
brought  out  ten  shillings. 

"There's  a  suit  of  mine  owing  for,  isn't  there, 
Mr.  Wheedle?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,  nothing  to  worry  about,  sir."  And, 
without  loss  of  dignity,  he  tried  to  infer  that,  small 
a  matter  though  it  was,  every  little  was  a  help  in 
those  hard  times.  The  inference  was  successfully 
produced.  Dicky  laid  the  ten  shillings  down  on  the 
table. 

388 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

"I'll  pay  the  rest,"  said  he,  "as  soon  as  I  can," 
and  went  quickly  to  the  door. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged,  sir;  I'll  send  the 
receipt  round  this  afternoon." 

In  the  street  Dicky  found  Mrs.  Baldwin,  looking 
in  every  direction  where  he  had  promised  he 
would  be. 

"It's  all  over,  Dicky,"  said  she  breathlessly. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed. 

"No,  I  mean — it's  all  right — a  boy." 

"How  is  she?" 

"Very  well — considerin'.  Poor  thing,  she  did 
'ave  a  time !  She  wants  to  see  yer." 

Dicky  crept  upstairs,  crept  into  the  room,  feeling 
it  was  a  new  world,  since  a  new  person  was  there 
whom  he  had  never  met  before,  a  person  he  was 
shy  of  meeting  now. 

Constance  turned  on  the  pillows,  and  her  smile 
was  tired  but  full  of  welcome.  He  knelt  down  by 
the  bedside  and  found  her  hand  as  Doctor  O'Shea 
stole  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER    IX 

IN  every  career,  eventful  towards  success,  there 
are  sudden  points  of  turning.  For  nearly  five 
years  Dicky  had  been  in  London,  learning  at 
the  art  schools,  working  at  home,  striving  for  rec- 
ognition, and  earning  only  that  of  Mr.  Nibbs. 

"I'm  not  a  bit  o'  good  to  you,  my  boy,"  the  little 
print-seller  had  frequently  said.  "I'm  only  whatcher 
might  call  an  incident.  I  can't  sell  yer  pictures  for 
yer.  Roll-top  desks  and  second-'and  carpets  are  the 
things  you  buy  in  the  Waterloo  Bridge  Road,  not 
stuff  like  yours.  But  you'll  remember  me,  as  time 
goes  on.  P'raps  you'd  never  'ave  taken  to  yer  wood 
engravin's  if  it  'adn't  been  for  me  touchin'  up  Diir- 
er's  prints  down  at  Greenwich.  That  gentleman, 
whoever  'e  is,  what  sent  yer  the  printin'  press,  'e 
knows  what  yer  worth.  So  do  I.  You'll  remember 
that  about  me,  too.  I  was  the  first  to  know  what  you 
was  worth.  Those  wood-blocks  yer  doin'  now — 
d'yer  know  what  they're  worth?" 

Dicky  shook  his  head. 

"More  than  two  guineas,  I  should  think,"  said  he. 

"More  than  two  guineas!  They're  worth  five  in 
Bond  Street.  But  they  don't  understand  'em  yet. 

390 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

I  shouldn't  understand  'em  myself,  if  it  'adn't  been 
for  yer  working  at  'em  alongside  of  me,  so  to  speak; 
I  knowin'  just  what  you  was  up  to.  D'yer  remem- 
ber 'ow  we  laughed  at  yer  the  first  time  yer  said 
yer  was  goin'  to  do  a  coloured  wood-block?  I 
thought  it  was  all  nonsense,  never  'aving  seen  a  col- 
oured wood-block  before.  But  you  go  on,  yer  know, 
and  you'll  get  things  as  good  as  paintin's." 

"I've  just  invented  a  new  instrument,"  said  Dicky. 
"I  didn't  tell  you  about  that.  You  know  the  Sar- 
dinia Street  Chapel  print?" 

Mr.  Nibbs  nodded. 

"Well,  you  know  the  bit  of  light  through  the  col- 
oured window,  the  way  it  scintillates — looks  all  as 
if  it  was  shaking — just  like  particles  of  dust  do  in  a 
ray  of  sunlight  that's  falling  into  a  room?" 

Mr.  Nibbs  nodded  again.  It  was  all  that  was 
required  of  him. 

"I've  invented  an  instrument  for  getting  that  ef- 
fect," said  Dicky.  "A  little  sort  of  wire  toothbrush 
— well,  they're  different  sizes,  some  are  quite  big — 
and  I  scrub  the  surface  with  it.  It  makes  it  all 
rough  and  that  does  it.  I'd  thought  for  a  long  time 
that  some  of  my  high  lights  were  too  flat.  In  sun- 
light particularly  there's  always  movement — must  be 
— all  those  microscopic  whirlings  must  make  move- 
ment— then  I  thought  of  this  brush  business.  I  can 
tell  you  I  was  excited  when  I  saw  the  first  one  come 

391 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

out.  I  don't  know  if  anyone's  ever  thought  of  that 
before,  getting  that  quiver  in  sunlight." 

Mr.  Nibbs'  mouth  was  open  as  he  looked  at 
Dicky.  To  think  of  trying  to  paint  the  gyrations  of 
dust  in  a  sunbeam!  And  to  succeed!  It  sounded 
like  a  trick  of  magic  to  him.  He  had  noticed  the 
light  through  those  windows  in  the  chapel  engraving. 
Casually  he  had  thought  how  good  it  was,  and  cas- 
ually had  believed  it  to  be  a  piece  of  luck  in  the 
printing.  And  then  to  hear  how  Dicky  had  in- 
vented an  instrument  solely  and  consciously  to  pro- 
duce that  effect!  It  betrayed  a  type  of  mind  which 
he  knew  his  own  was  too  poorly  equipped  to  grasp. 

"They'll  get  'old  of  yer  name  one  of  these  days," 
said  he.  "Richard  Furlong — it's  a  good  name  to 
'ang  'old  of.  Then  you'll  find  'em  comin'  round." 

Then  came  the  point  of  turning  for  which  Dicky 
had  waited,  the  point  of  turning  which  came  the  very 
day  after  Constance  had  brought  the  other  little 
Dicky  into  the  world.  From  a  Bond  Street  dealer 
with  whom  he  had  left  a  print  of  the  chapel  for  ex- 
hibition, fee  received  a  letter  requesting  that  he 
would  go  and  see  him  at  once. 

At  any  other  time  such  a  request  would  have  filled 
him  with  anticipation  and  excitement.  Now  he  read 
it  and  put  it  away  in  his  pocket.  Constance  was  ill. 
In  his  ignorance  he  had  thought  that,  once  the  child 
was  born,  all  danger  was  passed.  Yet  from  that 
moment  she  had  steadily  declined.  Every  morning 

392 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

Doctor  O'Shea  came  to  number  twelve,  and  every 
morning,  as  he  waited  in  the  printing  room,  Dicky 
saw  that  grave  expression  which  the  little  Irishman 
could  not  keep  from  his  face  as  he  closed  the  bed- 
room door. 

Then  a  second  and  more  determined  request  came 
from  the  picture  dealer.  Dicky  showed  it  to  O'Shea. 

"I  wouldn't  go  just  yet,"  said  he.  "Don't  leave 
her.  'Tis  no  good  hiding  it  from  ye,  she's  on  the 
very  edge.  Don't  leave  her  a  minute.  She  may  pull 
through,  mind  ye.  She's  a  strong  girrl,  and  there's 
every  wanting  in  her  to  live,  and  that's  a  good 
thing.  People  don't  die  as  a  rule  if  they  don't  want 
to."  He  laid  his  hand  on  Dicky's  shoulder.  "But 
ye  must  bear  up  yeerself,"  said  he.  "Don't  let  her 
see  the  long  face  on  ye  or  she'll  think  there's  no 
chance  for  her." 

"Does  she  know,  then?"  asked  Dicky  in  a  breath. 

"She  does  not,"  said  he;  "but  'tis  the  way  with 
women  that — 'tis  no  good  telling  'em  a  lie.  They 
see  through  ye,  and  over  a  serious  matter  like  this 
ye  don't  like  tellin'  'em  the  trooth — shure  tHfey  might 
believe  it.  Cheer  her  up  now.  Tell  her  all  ye'll 
be  doin'  with  the  baby,  the  two  av  ye,  whin  she's 
well  again.  It'll  put  the  heart  into  her." 

With  such  good  counsel,  he  left  him.  Dicky 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  down  into 
the  street  below.  All  the  words  that  Madame  Mar- 
co had  once  said  came  back  with  their  full  meaning 

393 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

to  him  then.  How  could  he  continue  in  those  rooms 
alone  if  Constance  left  him?  A  cry  from  the  child 
in  the  bedroom  made  him  shudder.  He  dared  not 
think  of  it  then.  It  was  her  he  wanted.  She  ful- 
filled some  function  in  his  life  without  which  his 
work  fell  pitiably  from  its  preeminence. 

He  wondered  was  it  the  fact  of  loving,  the  con- 
dition of  mind  which  it  induced,  that  gave  all  the 
energy  to  his  imagination.  For  why  was  it  that 
with  Constance  dead  he  could  think  of  no  future 
worth  the  having?  Yet  it  was  not  her  mind  that 
supplied  him  with  ideas  or  stimulated  him  to  the 
vigour  of  his  ambition.  She  had  the  mind  of  a  child, 
she  had  no  mind  at  all,  only  a  heart  with  which  to 
give,  generously  and  unceasingly.  Indeed,  he  re- 
turned her  little  in  kind.  Yet  he  had  often  noticed 
how,  the  more  she  expressed  her  love,  the  readier 
he  was  to  throw  himself  into  his  work. 

Was  that  the  bargain?  Was  that  the  exchange? 
Then  she  would  lose  but  little  except  her  child.  And 
all  the  people  in  the  street  passed  casually  by  while 
he  was  thinking  how  he  would  lose  all. 

It  was  an  unfair  transaction,  yet  it  was  all  she 
had  ever  asked.  By  some  strange  divination  she 
seemed  to  know  that  all  the  expression  of  his  love 
for  her  was  given,  not  to  herself,  but  to  the  energy 
in  his  work.  A  little  look,  a  pressure  of  the  hand, 
a  gentle  word  here  and  there,  and  she  had  been 
completely  satisfied.  That  was  the  wonderful  thing 

394 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

in  her.  She  gave  everything  and  knew  all  that  her 
giving  meant. 

So  he  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  window- 
frame  and  looking  down  into  the  street,  seeing  noth- 
ing, calling  his  conscience  into  the  speculation  upon 
that  problem  of  men  and  women  which  no  man  will 
ever  be  capable  of  solving  and  no  woman  would 
really  care  to  have  solved. 

With  a  shrug  of  deprecation,  he  turned  from 
the  window  at  last.  It  was  all  of  it  impossible  to 
understand.  Was  it  giving  a  stone  in  a  woman's 
demand  for  bread,  when  a  man  threw  all  the  vital- 
ity of  his  life  into  his  work?  Were  he  a  woman, 
he  knew  what  his  answer  would  be;  yes,  a  thousand 
times.  For  what  really  was  his  work  to  Constance? 
Only  a  pleasure  to  her  when  it  pleased  him.  No 
more  than  that.  As  work  that  was  accomplished, 
as  difficulties  overcome,  how  could  she  care  for  one 
of  the  pictures  he  painted  or  one  of  the  wood-blocks 
he  made  ?  She  wanted  love  from  him,  and  he  gave 
her  these.  Now  he  knew  he  needed  love  from  her, 
and  with  both  hands,  perhaps  with  her  life,  she  was 
giving  it.  Where  was  the  justice  in  that?  He  knew 
there  was  none. 

But  he  had  learnt  a  lesson.  Her  love  was  a  vital 
thing  to  him,  a  stimulant  to  the  force  of  life  that 
urged  him  on.  This  illness  of  hers  had  taught  him 
much.  When  she  got  well  again,  he  would  give  her 
the  stimulus  of  his  love  as  well.  The  giving  should 
26  395 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

not  all  be  from  her,  and  with  this  thought  lifting  him 
to  determination,  he  knocked  gently  on  the  door  of 
their  room  and  went  inside. 

She  was  lying  back  on  the  pillows,  but  her  eyes 
were  watching  the  door.  The  moment  she  saw  it 
was  Dicky,  the  lassitude  of  fatigue  left  her  face. 
Mrs.  Baldwin,  who  was  nursing  her,  rose  from  her 
chair  and  crept  into  the  other  room. 

Constance  stretched  out  her  hand  and  Dicky 
came  to  it,  binding  the  fingers  about  his,  pressing 
them  to  his  lips  and  kissing  them. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked. 

Dicky  brought  his  lips  to  a  smile. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  well  again  very  soon  now,"  said  he. 
"You  mean  to  get  well — that's  the  great  thing." 

"Yes,  I  mean  to,"  said  she.  "I've  got  'im  to  look 
after,  ain't  I?" 

"Yes,  you  dear  thing,  but  you  must  think  of  your- 
self first  of  all.  He's  all  right.  It's  you  now,  you 
before  everyone,  before  everything." 

"Not  your  work,  Dicky;  you  mustn't  stop  work- 
ing. 'Ave  you  begun  the  new  wood-block  yet?" 

He  shook  his  head.  All  the  document  he  had 
collected  for  his  engraving  of  St.  Paul's  across  the 
roof-tops  he  had  laid  aside. 

"I  can't  do  anything  now,"  said  he.  "Well,  I 
won't.  I'm  going  to  look  after  you." 

"I'd  sooner  you  worked,  Dicky — it  means  such  a 
lot  to  you.  You  know  if  you  miss  only  a  day  you'll 

396 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

feel  as  ashamed  of  yourself  as  if  you'd  done  nothing 
for  a  month." 

He  smiled  at  her  observation  of  that.  It  was 
quite  true.  Conscience  was  smiting  him  even  then. 

"Oh,  a  rest'll  do  me  good!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
shall  have  tons  of  work  to  do  soon;  Directly  you 
get  better,  I'm  going  to  see  a  dealer  in  Bond  Street. 
He's  written  to  me  twice." 

"Well,  then,  don't  wait,"  she  begged  him.  "Go 
to-day,  go  this  afternoon." 

He  shook  his  head  with  decision. 

"No,  I'll  go  to-morrow  perhaps.  We'll  wait  and 
see  how  you  are." 

She  seemed  better  the  next  day.  The  colour  was 
coming  back  into  her  cheeks.  The  doctor  was  as 
critical  as  ever,  but  he  admitted  to  Dicky  afterwards 
that  he  thought  she  had  taken  a  turn  towards  re- 
covery. 

"But  don't  ye  rely  on  ut  yet,"  said  he.  "She's 
been  as  near  the  edge  as  she  could  go.  Maybe  in  a 
week  she'll  be  as  lively  as  ever,  ye  can  never  tell." 

When  he  had  shown  her  the  two  letters  from  the 
dealer,  Constance  implored  Dicky  to  go  that  after- 
noon. 

"I  know  I'm  much  better,  I  can  feel  it,"  she  de- 
clared; and  at  last,  to  the  importunity  of  her  per- 
suasions, he  went. 

In  an  hour  he  was  back  again,  his  face  radiant, 
his  eyes  brilliant  with  excitement.  She  knew  the 

397 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

moment  he  entered  the  room  how  good  his  news 
must  be,  and,  despite  all  Mrs.  Baldwin's  efforts  to 
dissuade  her,  sat  up  in  bed  to  hear  what  it  was. 

"Oh,  I'm  made  I"  said  Dicky  in  a  breath.  "I'm 
made!  Nothing'll  stop  me  now  but  myself.  As 
soon  as  ever  you're  well,  you  dear  thing,  we'll  go 
and  live  in  the  country.  That*s  what  you've  got  to 
look  forward  to  now.  You  and  I  in  the  country. 
There's  no  need  for  me  to  stop  in  London  now. 
They're  going  to  buy  my  wood-blocks  as  I  do  'em. 
Fifty  pounds  for  every  edition — twenty  copies,  and 
then  I  destroy  the  block.  No  binding  me  to  'em. 
I  can  do  just  as  many  and  just  as  few  as  I  like,  and 
I'm  free  to  sell  any  other  work  I  like  anywhere  I 
please,  but  they'll  always  take  my  paintings  and  ex- 
hibit them  in  their  galleries.  Twenty-five  per  cent 
they  charge,  but  they'll  get  me  prices  I  couldn't  have 
got  anywhere  else — twenty  and  thirty  pounds,  mind 
you !  I  took  them  that  little  oil  painting  of  Covent 
Garden,  and  he  told  me  he  could  easily  sell  that  for 
fifteen  guineas — fifteen  guineas !  That's  fifteen  bob 
as  well  as  the  pounds!  You  can  do  what  you  like 
with  the  fifteen  bob.  But  of  course  I  don't  get  all 
of  that." 

He  stopped  for  breath,  and  her  eyes  were  danc- 
ing, for  she  knew  there  was  more  to  tell. 

"Yes — yes,"  she  said.    "Go  on." 

"You're  quite  right,  that  isn't  all,"  said  he. 
"There's  been  a  man  over  in  England,  buying  wood 

398 


RICHARD    FURLONG 

engravings,  representative  English  wood  engravings 
for  the  French  Government — for  their  gallery  in 
Paris — something  or  other — I  forget  the  name  of 
it.  And  he  saw  mine,  and  he's  bought  it,  paid  ten 
guineas  for  it — ten  guineas  from  the  French  Gov- 
ernment I  God  bless  the  French  I  They'll  buy  'em 
here  one  of  these  days.  But  think  of  it — a  picture 
of  mine  belonging  to  a  whole  nation  I  It's  fine,  I 
can  tell  you,  fine !  fine !" 

He  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it  again  and  again, 
then  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  a  sudden  sound  that 
took  his  head  and  lifted  it  in  a  moment,  he  looked 
up  to  find  her  eyes  were  filled  with  a  panic  of  ques- 
tions— all  the  questions  of  her  life  were  there,  crying 
out,  frightened  to  him,  for  answer. 

"Constance !"  he  cried. 

"  'Ave  I  ?"  said  she,  and  her  voice  came  out  to 
him  from  another  world.  Her  head  fell  suddenly, 
as  suddenly  the  other  world  had  taken  her.  He 
caught  her  as  she  dropped  into  his  arms.  He  knew 
it  was  death.  Sudden  and  bewilderingly,  unexpect- 
ed as  it  was,  something  told  him  it  was  death,  and 
fear  and  agony  and  dismay  brought  out  of  him  a 
cry  to  God,  then  crumpled  him  up  beside  her. 

So  much  as  this  was  the  cost  of  his  achievement. 

THE   END  0) 


A     000122770     1 


